SAINTS    AND    SINNERS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


SAINTS  AND  SINNERS 

A  NEW  AND   ORIGINAL  DRAMA 

OF 

MODERN   ENGLISH   MIDDLE- CLASS  LIFE 

IN  FIVE  ACTS 


BY 

HENRY  ARTHUR   JONES 

AUTHOR   OF 

'THE  DANCING  GIRL,'  'THE  MIDDLEMAN,'  '  JUDAH,' 
AND  'WEALTH' 


|£0rfe 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1914 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BY  HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  August,  1891.     Reprinted 
September,  1908  ;  April,  1914. 


Kortoooft 
Berwick  &  Smith  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 


THE  passing  of  the  American  Copyright  Bill  is  a  fact 
of  the  highest  import  for  English  playwrights  and 
for  the  future  of  the  English  drama, — that  is,  if  the 
English  drama  has  a  future.  It  will  indeed  afford 
an  accurate  gauge  of  any  individual  playwright's  pre- 
tensions, and  of  the  general  health  and  condition  of 
the  national  drama.  Hitherto  the  publication  of  an 
English  play  would  have  incurred  the  forfeiture  of  the 
American  stage-rights,  in  many  cases  a  very  serious 
pecuniary  loss.  It  would  also  have  been  attended 
with  a  very  grave  artistic  risk.  The  best  American 
managers — those  who  are  capable  of  doing  justice 
to  the  author  in  the  production  of  a  play — would 
naturally  have  refused  to  touch  it  unless  their  stage- 
rights  were  protected.  It  would  have  been  presented, 


2084253 


vi  PREFACE 

if  at  all,  under  the  worst  auspices,  and  with  the 
worst  and  most  haphazard  stage  management  and 
surroundings. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  is  a  question  whether 
the  placing  of  a  play  in  the  hands  of  the  reading 
public  would  have  compensated  for  its  loss  of  influ- 
ence in  its  legitimate  sphere  on  the  stage,  and  for  the 
discredit  brought  on  the  author  by  inadequate  and 
irresponsible  production  and  performance. 

Further,  in  the  present  uncertain  relations  of 
English  literature  and  the  modern  drama,  an  author 
may  be  excused  for  having  some  doubts  as  to  whether 
the  interests  of  either  are  to  be  served  by  the  publica- 
tion of  plays  whose  perusal  may  only  serve  to  show 
how  sharp  is  the  division  between  them.  The 
American  Copyright  Bill  removes  these  disabilities, 
and  makes  it  inexcusable  to  yield  to  these  doubts. 
If,  from  this  time  forward,  a  playwright  does  not 
publish  within  a  reasonable  time  after  the  theatrical 
production  of  his  piece,  it  will  be  an  open  con- 
fession that  his  work  was  a  thing  of  the  theatre 
merely,  needing  its  garish  artificial  light  and  sur- 
roundings, and  not  daring  to  face  the  calm  air  and 
cold  daylight  of  print.  And  further,  if  a  custom 
does  not  now  arise  in  England,  such  as  prevails 


PREFACE  vii 

in  France,  of  publishing  successful  plays,  and  if 
a  general  reading  public  is  not  gradually  drawn 
round  the  drama,  then  it  will  be  a  sign  that  our  stage 
remains  in  the  same  state  of  intellectual  paralysis 
that  has  afflicted  it  all  the  century.  Our  drama  will 
continue  to  be  a  "  Slough  of  Despond  "  in  the  wide 
well-tilled  field  of  English  literature,  an  irreclaimable 
bog  wherein,  as  in  John  Bunyan's,  "  twenty  thousand 
cartloads  of  wholesome  instructions "  have  been 
thrown  without  improving  the  way. 

But  it  will  be  urged  that  many  successful  plays  will 
not  "  read  "  at  all,  while  in  many  others  the  passages 
that  charm  us  most  in  the  study  are  those  that  bore 
us  most  on  the  stage,  and  the  passages  that  do  not 
strike  us  at  all  in  reading  sometimes  come  out  in 
letters  of  fire  at  the  theatre.  This  brings  me  to 
remark  what  it  is  one  of  the  chief  objects  of  this 
preface  to  enforce  and  illustrate,  namely,  that  there  is 
a  certain  very  strong  antagonism  between  the  literary 
and  theatrical  elements  of  a  play.  Very  often  this 
antagonism  is  more  apparent  than  real,  very  often  it 
is  the  just  rebellion  of  the  theatrical  ass  (I  am  speak- 
ing quite  figuratively)  against  carrying  a  load  of 
literary  luggage  that  does  not  belong  to  him ;  very 
often  it  is  his  native  friskiness  refusing  to  carry  any 


viii  PREFACE 

literary  luggage  at  all, — that  is,  to  drop  metaphor,  it 
is  the  mere  impatience  of  intellectual  exertion  in  a 
theatre  on  the  part  of  both  entertained  and  enter- 
tainers. But  whatever  the  cause  of  the  quarrel,  and 
whatever  the  various  and  debatable  circumstances 
that  may  place  the  blame  on  the  one  side  or  the 
other,  there  does  exist  this  very  palpable  antagonism, 
and  jealousy,  and  desire  of  mastery  between  the  two 
elements,  theatrical  and  literary,  that  make  up  a 
play.  So  much  so  that  on  seeing  some  popular 
plays  one  is  tempted  to  exclaim,  "The  worst  and 
deadliest  enemy  of  the  English  drama  is — the  English 
theatre." 

It  is  not  my  province  here  to  deal  at  length  with 
the  relation  between  English  literature  and  the 
modern  English  drama,  or  rather  with  the  want  of 
relation  between  them.  I  am  only  concerned  to 
establish  the  general  rule,  that  the  intellectual  and 
art  values  of  any  drama,  its  permanent  influence  and 
renown,  are  in  exact  proportion  to  its  literary  qualities. 
Shakespeare  and  Sheridan  are  popular  playwrights 
to-day,  strictly  on  account  of  the  enduring  literary 
'qualities  of  their  work.  They  have  admirable  stage- 
craft as  well,  but  this  alone  would  not  have  rescued 
them  from  oblivion.  The  French  drama  has  been 


PREFACE  ix 

operative  intellectually  and  has  commanded  the 
respect  of  the  civilised  world  because  its  authors 
have  been  men  of  letters,  and  because  their  works 
have  always  been  available  and  recognisable  as  pieces 
of  literature.  There  has  been  a  definite  literary 
standard  below  which  it  was  impossible  for  any 
French  dramatist  of  standing  to  sink.  In  England 
there  has  been  no  literary  standard,  and  no  ready 
means  of  marking  the  literary  and  intellectual  position 
of  the  modern  drama.  The  most  amazing  master- 
pieces of  artificiality,  extravagance,  and  theatricality 
have  been  rapturously  received  by  the  great  British 
multitude  without  ever  being  examined  as  works  of 
literature  or  studies  of  life.  Every  great  literary  critic 
of  the  age  has  contemptuously  spoken  of  the  modern 
drama,  or  has  more  contemptuously  ignored  it.  If  any 
little  flame  of  authentic  literary  fire  has  arisen,  it  has 
quickly  flickered  out  in  the  inane  air.  Perhaps  the 
most  accurate  idea  of  the  literary  status  of  the  modern 
drama  can  be  gained  from  the  style  and  form  of  pre- 
sentation of  those  plays  which  for  necessary  business 
theatrical  purposes  it  is  considered  advisable  to  print. 
Nothing  could  better  express  the  frank  contempt  of 
the  English  theatre  for  English  literature.  In  the 
first  of  Mr.  William  Archer's  volumes  on  the  modern 


x  PREFACE 

theatre,  English  Dramatists  of  To-day,  will  be  found 
what  will  surely  be  a  sociological  curiosity  of  great 
interest  in  another  generation  or  two — a  transcript 
of  the  most  popular  scene  from  the  most  popular  and 
money-making  comedy  of  our  time.  At  present  it 
is  severely  instructive  reading.  I  shall  doubtless  be 
called  to  account  for  sneering  at  what  has  brought 
innocent  delight  to  thousands.  Innocent  delight ! 
Fireworks  and  Aunt  Sally  are  innocent  delights,  and 
there  is  no  deadly  sin  in  an  exhibition  of  chromo- 
lithographs. 

Perhaps  some  of  my  remarks  would  be  more 
applicable  to  the  theatre  of  ten  or  twenty  years  ago. 
In  quite  recent  days  it  may  be  gratefully  acknowledged 
that  in  London  at  least  a  new  spirit  is  kindling  our 
audiences,  and  a  new  strong  desire  is  openly  expressed 
that  the  modern  drama  should  take  its  rightful  position 
as  a  national  art  in  definite  relation  with  literature 
and  the  other  arts,  with  an  acknowledged  intellectual 
status  and  declared  intellectual  and  artistic  aims. 
The  piercing  light  of  science  has  been  sprung  upon 
us  behind  the  scenes,  and  our  worn-out  old  apparatus 
of  theatrical  effect  and  situation  looks  half-ghastly 
half-trumpery  in  that  cold  cruel  beam.  Ancient 
and  well-established  purveyors  of  the  old  regulation 


PREFACE  xi 

theatrical  fare  are  pathetically  declaiming  against  the 
fickleness  of  the  public  taste.  Strange  that  this  poor 
docile  good-natured  public,  which  has  always  been 
so  comfortably  conservative,  should  at  last  get  a 
glimmering  in  its  head  that  the  English  drama  is, 
or  should  be,  mainly  and  chiefly  the  art  of  repre- 
senting English  life,  and  not  the  art  of  sensational 
and  spectacular  illusion,  nor  the  art  of  building 
up  an  ingenious  Chinese  puzzle  of  comic  or  thrill- 
ing situations  !  Strange  !  What  will  become  of  the 
British  drama  if  this  new  idea  should  take  root  and 
grow? 

To  return  to  the  examination  of  the  opposing 
literary  and  theatrical  elements  in  a  play.  The  com- 
parative intellectual  and  literary  degradation  of  the 
modern  drama  for  two  or  three  generations  past  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  plays  have  been  chiefly  considered 
and  exploited  from  their  purely  theatrical  side,  and 
as  a  vehicle  for  exhibiting  the  powers  and  peculiarities 
of  an  actor  or  a  company.  Now  it  is  quite  natural 
and  just  that  an  actor  should  have  the  highest  opinion 
of  his  art,  and  that  he  should  wish  to  subordinate  the 
purely  literary  element  in  a  play.  I  do  not  mean 
that  he  will  wish  to  cut  any  literary  speech  that  occurs 
in  his  part,  or  that  he  will  not  like  to  win  the  praise 


xii  PREFACE 

that  is  bestowed  upon  a  literary  production.  But 
naturally  and  of  necessity  under  our  present  system 
those  plays,  and  those  parts  of  a  play,  will  be  exploited 
which  give  the  actor  an  immediate  chance  of  dazzling 
the  public.  And  the  play  will  be  considered  with 
this  chief  end  in  view,  of  ministering  to  the  popularity 
of  the  actor,  rather  than  with  any  idea  of  presenting 
a  perfect  piece  of  literature  and  of  restoring  play- 
writing  to  its  lost  dignity  of  a  national  literary  art.  It 
will  of  course  be  said  that  this  is  the  dramatist's 
concern  and  not  the  actor's.  Quite  so,  but  it  cannot 
be  anybody's  concern  while  the  playwright  is  the 
actor's  servant.  The  present  system  in  England  of 
manufacturing  plays  to  order  and  to  exploit  some 
leading  performer  is  quite  sufficient  to  account  for 
the  literary  degradation  of  the  modern  drama  and 
for  the  just  contempt  with  which  it  has  been  viewed 
by  the  intellect  of  the  nation  during  the  last  twenty- 
five  years.  How  is  it  possible  that  a  writer  can  put 
his  best  work  into  what  does  not  spring  spontaneously 
from  his  heart  and  convictions?  And  a  comparison 
of  the  stages  of  England  and  France  for  the  past 
generation  gives  an  exact  answer  to  the  questions 
"  What  is  the  result  of  putting  the  theatrical  elements 
of  a  play  in  the  first  place? "  and  "  What  is  the  result 


PREFACE  xiii 

of  putting  the  literary  elements  in  the  first  place?" 
While  it  is  highly  significant  that  the  recent  adoption 
by  a  leading  French  playwright  of  the  English  practice 
of  writing  plays  to  order  for  a  star  performer  has 
marked  a  notable  decline  in  the  quality  of  his  work. 
And  the  effect  on  the  audiences  is  also  correspondent 
and  answerable.  For  the  public  is  pliable  and 
teachable  within  very  considerable  limits,  and  by  a 
natural  law  it  grows  tolerant  of  and  responsive  to 
the  conditions  imposed  upon  it.  And  further,  it  is 
impossible  for  an  actor  who  sees  nightly  audiences 
deeply  impressed  and  stirred  by  theatrical  devices 
not  to  suppose  that  these  are  the  very  essence  of  the 
dramatic  art.  Finally,  so  many  and  so  binding 
and  so  perplexing  are  the  necessary  conventions  and 
limitations  of  playwriting,  that  the  author  watch- 
ing his  public  closely  and  for  dear  life's  sake  being 
obliged  to  keep  in  touch  with  them,  becomes  also 
confused  and  is  often  led  astray  to  mistake  some 
stale  trick  of  the  stage  for  a  fundamental  law  of  its 
being. 

Now  the  custom  of  publishing  our  plays  at  least  offers 
a  chance  of  escape  from  some  of  these  difficulties  and 
absurdities,  if  it  does  not  open  up  a  larger  and  higher 
sphere  for  the  dramatist.  In  dealing  with  this  question 


xiv  PREFACE 

on  a  former  occasion  I  omitted  to  distinguish  between 
the  two  kinds  of  success  that  a  play  should  strive 
to  win.  There  is  the  immediate  theatrical  success, 
which  is  largely  due  to  acting,  stage  arrangement,  and 
management;  and  there  is  the  more  permanent  and 
worthy  renown,  which  is  literary  and  intellectual  rather 
than  theatrical.  Thus,  while  in  the  case  of  the  School 
for  Scandal  this  higher  renown  belongs  to  Sheridan, 
the  theatrical  success  of  any  revival  depends  upon  the 
cast  and  stage  management  and  other  details  entirely 
belonging  to  the  theatre.  Now  my  contention  is 
that  our  present  system  tends  to  deny  this  higher 
and  permanent  renown  to  the  dramatist,  tends  to 
keep  his  eyes  off  his  great  task  and  his  great  reward, 
tends  to  docket  him  as  a  journeyman-assistant  in  the 
cheaper  and  temporary  theatrical  success.  When 
one  glances  at  our  great  Victorian  literature,  at  its 
conspicuous  achievements  in  poetry,  in  fiction,  in 
history,  in  biography,  in  science,  in  criticism,  it  is 
impossible  to  doubt  that  it  might  have  been  equally 
triumphant  in  the  domain  of  the  English  drama  had 
some  stream  of  its  great  flood  been  by  chance 
diverted  across  that  arid  common.  Perhaps  if 
one  searches  a  little  into  causes,  the  intellectual 
poverty  of  the  drama  of  this  century  may  be  chiefly 


PREFACE  xv 

ascribed  to  the  Puritan  dread  of  the  theatre,  and  to 
those  other  reasons  which  have  kept  the  English  from 
being  a  playgoing  nation  as  a  whole,  and  have  also 
kept  any  considerable  portion  of  cultivated  playgoers 
from  forming  a  body  of  sound  dramatic  opinion 
amongst  themselves. 

But  the  prejudices  that  have  kept  the  English 
from  being  a  playgoing  nation  are  rapidly  breaking 
up,  and  more  encouraging  still,  a  body  of  carefully 
discussed  and  examined  dramatic  opinion  is  being 
gradually  formed  amongst  the  more  advanced  section 
of  playgoers.  The  intellectual  ferment  of  the  age 
has  reached  the  theatre  and  has  begun  to  leaven  it. 
I  have  tried  to  indicate  what  appears  to  me  one  of 
the  great  hindrances  to  our  advance  to  a  higher 
level.  While  audiences  are  trained  to  regard  the 
theatrical  elements  of  a  play  as  the  essence  of 
the  matter,  plays  will  succeed  or  fail  mainly  on 
their  theatrical  merits,  and  at  best  we  shall  remain 
in  our  present  position.  No  very  high  literary  or 
intellectual  average  will  be  maintained  because  the 
prizes  are  to  be  looked  for  in  another  direction, 
and  for  other  qualities. 

Nothing  that  I  have  said  must  be  held  to  imply 
contempt  of  theatrical  success,  or  disrespect  of  those 
b 


xvi  PREFACE 

whose  devotion  to  their  own  art  naturally  inclines 
them  to  rank  it  in  the  highest  place.  And  I  am 
very  glad  to  acknowledge  here  my  immense  debt  to 
those  who  have  been  associated  with  me  in  the  re- 
presentation of  my  plays.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  appraise  my  indebtedness  to  them  too 
highly,  or  to  give  them  too  much  credit  for  their 
share  in  the  measure  of  theatrical  success  that  I  have 
obtained. 

But  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  misjudged  or  censured 
if  I  continue  to  insist  upon  the  comparative  worthless- 
ness  of  all  mere  theatrical  success.  The  passing  of 
the  American  Copyright  Bill  will  prove  the  mettle  of 
English  playwrights.  It  will  show  whether  we  are 
capable  of  seizing  and  holding  our  great  legacy  as  the 
inheritors  of  our  Elizabethan  forefathers,  or  whether 
we  are  only  fit  to  be  the  lackeys  and  underlings  of 
French  farceurs,  supine,  effete,  disabled,  and  im- 
potently  dallying  with  the  great  issues  of  human 
life  as  with  a  child's  box  of  wooden  toy-men. 

The  English  drama  has  a  great  chance  to-day. 
There  is  but  one  way  of  advancing  or  even  of  holding 
our  own,  and  that  is  by  making  the  theatre  a  national 
art  with  a  definite  literary  and  intellectual  basis,  dis- 
dainful of  all  theatrical  effect  that  will  not  submit  to 


PREFACE  xvil 

take  an  auxiliary  place.  There  are  a  dozen,  a 
hundred  different  ways  of  tumbling  back  into  folly 
and  insincerity  and  theatricality. 

We  have  amongst  our  dramatic  critics  more  than 
one  man  who  may  justly  claim  that  he  has  done 
more  to  advance  the  popularity  and  prosperity  of 
the  theatre  than  any  living  author.  And  we  have 
many  who  love  and  honour  the  drama,  and  are 
dissatisfied  with  its  present  condition.  I  am  sure  no 
greater  service  can  be  done  to  the  English  drama 
than  for  those  who  are  our  appointed  judges  to  insist 
that  we  shall  no  longer  shelter  ourselves  behind  the 
illusions  of  the  theatre,  the  talent,  the  passion,  the 
insight,  and  the  personalities  of  our  interpreters,  but 
that  we  shall  reveal  the  true  character  of  our  own 
work,  and  show  whether  it  has  any  lasting  vitality  and 
truth  in  it  apart  from  its  momentary  apparition  be- 
hind the  heated  glare  of  the  footlights. 


II 


I  leave  the  general  question  of  the  advisability  and 
importance  to  the  English  stage  of  establishing  a 
custom  of  printing  successful  plays,  and  come  to  the 


xviii  PREFACE 

smaller  matter  of  the  individual  play  here  given  to 
the  public  in  its  printed  form  for  the  first  time. 

After  I  had  obtained  a  great  financial  success  in 
melodrama,  and  was  temporarily  in  a  position  to 
write  a  play  to  please  myself  rather  than  to  suit  the 
exigencies  of  a  theatrical  manager,  I  gave  many 
months  to  the  writing  of  Saints  and  Sinners.  I 
was  not  then  very  well  acquainted  with  all  the  many 
necessities  of  theatrical  production,  and  the  niceties 
and  peculiarities  of  audiences  at  particular  theatres, 
and  I  confidently  reckoned  upon  as  great  a  success 
in  my  new  venture  as  I  had  just  obtained  in  what  I 
knew  to  be  the  cheaper  and  coarser  art  of  melodrama. 
But  at  the  outset  the  piece  was  very  dubiously  re- 
ceived, and  the  general  impression  obtained  in 
theatrical  circles  that  I  had  only  proved  my  incom- 
petence to  write  plays  away  from  the  theatrical  leading- 
strings  which  had  hitherto  guided  me.  And  before 
I  knew  that  the  piece  had  settled  into  an  assured 
success,  I  had  weakly  sold  myself  to  what  the  Satur- 
day Review  justly  calls,  "  the  dull  devil  of  spectacular 
melodrama."  And  I  remained  a  bondslave  for  many 
years. 

I  am  conscious  of  very  many  defects  in  the  play. 
I  wish  I  could  ascribe  them  to  the  bad  school  in 


PREFACE  xix 

which  any  English  playwright  who  began  to  learn 
his  art  in  1870  was  necessarily  nurtured.  And  I 
wish  I  had  the  time  and  will  to  remedy  them.  But 
having  once  left  a  play  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  re- 
enter  into  its  spirit,  and  it  is  almost  impossible  for 
me  to  give  additional  vitality  to  characters  that  I 
have  once  parted  company  with.  And  with  more 
important  tasks  pressing  me,  I  do  not  think  it  would 
be  profitable  for  me  to  do  more  than  I  have  done 
during  the  last  few  days,  namely,  remove  a  few  extra- 
vagancies and  touch  up  the  dialogue  where  I  could  do 
so  easily,  and  without  disturbing  the  general  tenor 
and  necessary  succession  of  the  scenes.  But,  though 
I  may  not  lay  the  flattering  unction  to  my  soul  that 
the  artificial  conditions  of  the  English  drama  at  the 
time  of  my  learning  stagecraft  were  responsible  for 
all  the  failings  of  Saints  and  Sinners,  I  think  I 
may  honestly  plead  them  as  an  extenuation  of  some 
of  its  worst  defects. 

Nothing  could  give  a  better  idea  of  the  stand- 
point of  the  average  British  playgoer,  of  his  utter 
incapacity  to  view  a  play  as  a  study  and  representation 
of  life,  or  to  look  upon  it  as  anything  but  a  comic 
entertainment  designed  to  make  him  laugh  by  any 
possible  means,  than  the  first  criticism  I  overheard 


xx  PREFACE 

upon  Saints  and  Sinners.  The  play  was  produced, 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  the  players  easy  in  their 
parts  before  facing  a  London  audience,  at  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Margate,  in  the  presence  of  a  holiday 
audience.  A  very  uproarious  farce  had  previously 
been  running  at  the  London  theatre  where  Saints 
and  Sinners  was  announced  for  production  on  the 
following  Thursday.  The  Margate  audience  assembled 
with  the  expectation  of  a  repetition  of  the  broad  non- 
sense which  such  an  association  promised.  They 
showed  a  certain  amount  of  interest,  but  their  chief 
feeling  was  one  of  puzzled  and  somewhat  shocked 
uneasiness  and  discomfort.  I  went  into  a  hotel  to 
call  for  a  friend  and  heard  a  group  at  the  bar  dis- 
cussing the  play.  One  sentence  fell  upon  my  ear, 
uttered  in  a  puzzled,  distressed,  dissatisfied  tone,  "  A 
lot  of  folks  going  into  a  little  chapel !  "  That  an 
English  playwright  should  select  for  representation 
on  the  English  stage  a  scene  in  which  a  great  body  of 
his  countrymen  constantly  figure  one  day  in  seven, 
and  which  is  of  the  utmost  significance  in  the  general 
sum  of  English  life,  seemed  so  amazing  and  out- 
rageous a  violation  of  all  the  known  canons  of  play- 
writing  to  this  honest  Margate  playgoer,  that  I  have 
never  to  this  day  been  able  to  rid  myself  of  the  sense 


PREFACE  xxi 

of  having  done  him  a  deep  personal  injury.  While 
the  same  failure  to  understand  the  elementary  axiom 
of  dramatic  composition  was  exemplified  by  an  other- 
wise intelligent  free-thinker,  who  was  observed  to 
show  great  resentment  and  contempt  whenever  the 
minister  gave  utterance  to  any  sentence  implying  a 
religious  belief. 

Half  the  audience  thought  I  was  canting,  and  the 
other  half  thought  I  was  blaspheming.  The  play  ran 
almost  two  hundred  nights  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre, 
some  of  its  success  being  doubtless  due  to  the  dis- 
cussion it  raised  as  to  the  playwright's  right  to  portray 
contemporary  religious  life.  The  article  I  wrote  in 
defence  of  my  position  in  The  Nineteenth  Century 
review  is  here  reproduced  as  an  appendix.  It  was 
never  answered,  and  not  one  of  its  contentions  was 
combated.  The  liberty  there  demanded  for  the 
dramatist  has  been  since  most  freely  accorded  on 
all  sides,  and  the  boundaries  there  marked  out  in- 
dicate the  present  recognised  domain  of  the  stage. 
Perhaps  other  stage  reforms  which  are  resisted  to- 
day will  be  also  accepted  as  matters  of  course 
when  as  many  years  shall  have  passed  from  the 
statement  of  their  claims  upon  the  goodwill  of  the 
public. 


xxii  PREFACE 

Though  the  first  general  reception  of  the  play  was 
chilly  and  carping,  I  received  very  warm  recognition 
of  its  aims  from  one  or  two  quarters.  Especially  the 
sketches  of  the  smaller  characters  and  the  deacons 
were  much  praised,  and  also  in  certain  quarters  much 
blamed.  The  character  of  Hoggard  was  censured 
as  impossibly  vile.  But  allowing  for  the  necessary 
sharpness  and  swiftness  of  stage  portraiture,  and  the 
impossibility  of  exhausting  or  even  suggesting  all 
the  minute  motives  and  aspects  of  character  in  a 
theatre,  I  think  Hoggard  may  be  claimed  as  a  not 
unfair  representative  of  a  very  widely-spread  class  in 
narrow  English  religious  communities.  There  is  of 
course  a  very  strong  connection  between  the  general 
character  and  conduct  of  a  nation  and  its  creed,  but 
every  day  gives  us  instances  of  a  ludicrous  want  of 
harmony,  or  apparently  of  even  the  most  distant 
relation  of  any  sort  between  a  man's  religious  pro- 
fessions and  his  actions.  And  this  at -first -sight 
astounding  discordancy  of  belief  and  practice  is 
much  more  frequent  in  the  narrower  and  smaller  and 
less  intellectual  sects,  and  is  partly  the  correlative  of 
a  low  degree  of  intelligence.  Any  one  who  has  care- 
fully studied  the  curious  and  grotesque  inconsistencies 
of  religious  profession  and  conduct  in  England  will,  I 


PREFACE  xxiii 

think  readily  concede  that  a  bitter  and  stubborn  and 
blind  disregard  of  the  primary  duties  to  one's  neigh- 
bour is  not  at  all  an  uncommon  characteristic  of 
religious  professors  in  the  class  from  which  Hoggard 
is  taken.  At  the  same  time,  I  think  it  would  have 
been  better  to  have  shown  in  some  way  that  this  is  not 
necessarily  the  accompaniment  of  the  deacon's  office. 
A  well-known  Nonconformist  minister,  while  cordially 
recognising  the  faithfulness  of  the  types  of  deacon  in 
Hoggard  and  Prabble,  and  declaring  that  he  knew 
them  personally,  suggested  that  I  should  also  have 
made  George  Kingsmill  a  deacon,  which  would  have 
removed  all  suspicion  of  bias.  I  scarcely  found  that 
possible,  and  I  thought  that  in  the  person  of  Jacob 
Fletcher  I  had  rendered  a  full  acknowledgment  of 
the  sterling  qualities  to  be  found  in  English  dis- 
senting life. 

Upon  the  occasion  of  its  first  performance  the 
piece  was  played,  apart  from  a  few  quite  unimportant 
alterations,  as  it  is  here  published.  But  the  death- 
scene  proving  too  sad  for  the  genial  associations  of 
the  theatre  where  it  was  to  be  performed,  I  accepted 
a  kind  suggestion  from  a  well-known  critic,  and 
changed  the  last  scene  into  a  happy  union  between 
Letty  and  George.  I  did  this  with  some  reluctance, 


xxiv  PREFACE 

but  I  reflected  that  on  the  whole  the  final  denouement 
was  not  of  such  vital  consequence  as  the  presentation 
of  the  picture  of  English  religious  life.  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  be  harshly  judged  by  those  who  under- 
stand what  have  been  the  inner  conditions  of  writing 
for  the  English  stage  and  the  concessions  demanded 
by  the  public  until  quite  recently. 

In  restoring  the  original  ending  I  am  pleased  to 
think  I  am  acting  not  only  in  harmony  with  my  own 
feelings,  but  also  with  the  judgment  of  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold.  In  appending  a  letter  he  wrote  me  after 
seeing  the  piece,  I  am  pleased  to  acknowledge  his 
constant  courtesy  and  encouragement,  and  to  re- 
member that  I  was  instrumental  in  bringing  him  to 
the  modern  theatre  after  a  great  many  years  of 
absence.  His  letter  runs  as  follows  : — 

"  I  went  to  see  Saints  and  Sinners,  and  my  interest 
was  kept  up  throughout  as  I  expected.  You  have 
remarkably  the  art — so  valuable  in  drama — of  exciting 
interest  and  sustaining  it.  The  piece  is  full  of  good 
and  telling  things,  and  one  cannot  watch  the  audience 
without  seeing  that  by  strokes  of  this  kind  faith  in  the 
middle-class  fetish  is  weakened,  however  slowly,  as  it 
could  be  in  no  other  way. 

"  I  must  add  that  I  dislike  seduction- dramas  (even 


PREFACE  xxv 

in  Faust  the  feeling  tells  with  me),  and  that  the 
marriage  of  the  heroine  with  her  farmer  does  not 
please  me  as  a  denouement. 

"  Your  representative  middle-class  man  (Hoggard) 
was  well  drawn  and  excellently  acted." 

So  wrote  to  me  the  sweet  singer  who  lies  silent 
to-day  by  the  banks  of  his  beloved  Thames.  No,  not 
silent !  For  another  saying  of  his  comes  aptly  to  my 
memory  and  has  a  bearing  upon  the  present  attempt 
to  bring  together  English  literature  and  the  English 
stage — "  The  theatre  is  irresistible  !  Organise  the 
theatre  ! " 

If  I  have  earned  his  commendation  and  "  weakened 
the  faith  in  the  middle-class  fetish,"  much  battered 
in  other  quarters  of  recent  years,  I  have  fulfilled  my 
main  design  in  presenting  this  play.  For  I  do  not 
claim  any  great  merit  for  Saints  and  Sinners  apart 
from  that  of  representing  with  some  degree  of  faith- 
fulness, and  with  due  regard  to  the  requirements  of 
the  modern  stage,  some  very  widely-spread  types  of 
modern  middle-class  Englishmen.  If  it  be  objected 
that  they  are  rather  commonplace  and  uninteresting, 
I  can  only  urge  in  defence  that  it  is  impossible  to 
suppose  that  God  Himself  can  have  taken  any  great 
degree  of  pride  in  creating  four-fifths  of  the  present 


xxvi  PREFACE 

inhabitants  of  the  British  Isles,  and  can  hardly  be 
imagined  as  contemplating  His  Image  in  the  person 
of  the  average  British  tradesman  without  a  suspicion 
that  the  mould  is  getting  a  little  out  of  shape. 

LONDON,  i$th  April  1891. 


Produced  first  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Margate,  on 
Monday  22d  September  1884  ;  and  at  the  Vaude- 
ville Theatre,  London,  on  25th  September  1884, 
filling  the  bill  nightly  until  Easter  1885. 


CHARACTERS. 


JACOB  FLETCHER,  Minister  of  Bethel 
Chapel,  Steepleford 

GEORGE  KINGSMILL,  a  Young  Farmer 
CAPTAIN  EUSTACE  FANSHAWE  . 

SAMUEL  HOGGARD,  a  Tanner,  Senior 
Deacon  at  Bethel 

LOT  BURDEN,  Foreman  to  Hoggard, 
Collector  of  Pew-Rents  at  Bethel 

PRABBLE,  Junior  Deacon  at  Bethel     . 

PETER  GREENACRE 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY 

RADDLES        .         .        .         . 

LEESON,  Fanshawe's  Man 

RAILWAY  PORTER 

TOM  MARKS  .... 

LETTY    FLETCHER,     the    Minister's 
Daughter        .... 

LYDIA,  the  Minister's  Housekeeper  . 
MRS.  PARRIDGE  .... 
FANNY  PARRIDGE 


Mr.  THOMAS  THORNE. 
Mr.  HENRY  NEVILLE. 
Mr.  H.  B.  CONWAY. 

Mr.  MACKINTOSH. 

Mr.  FRED  THORNE. 
Mr.  E.  M.  ROBSON. 
Mr.  LESTOCQ. 

Mr.  F.  GROVE. 

Mr.  W.  HOWE. 

Mr.  AUSTIN. 
Mr.  RANN. 

Miss  CISSY  GRAHAME. 
Miss  KATE  PHILLIPS. 
Miss  GIFFARD. 
Miss  PEACH. 


The  action  takes  place  in  the  present  day  in  the  Midland 
town  of  Steepleford  and  its  neighbourhood,  and  in  one  scene  of 
the  Third  Act  at  Torquay. 


ACT   I. 

"Two  LOVES  I  HAVE." 

SCENE — The  Minister's  Study. 

(A  day  passes.} 

ACT  II. 

A  BIRD  is  SNARED. 

SCENE — I.  Rodimore  Woods  at  Sunset. 

2.  Ousebridge  Junction. 

3.  The  Minister's  Study. 
(A  month  passes.) 

ACT   III. 

LETTY  CHOOSES. 

SCENE — I.  A  Room  in  the  Minister's  House. 
2.   Villa  at  Torquay. 

(Five  days  pass.) 

ACT   IV. 

JACOB  CHOOSES. 

SCENE — i.  Exterior  of  Bethel  Chapel  on  Sunday  Morning. 
2.  The  Vestry. 

(Four  years  pass.) 

ACT  V. 

LIVED  DOWN. 

SCENE — Jacob's  House  on  the  outskirts  of  Steepleford. 


TIME  IN  PERFORMANCE. — 2  hours  38  minutes. 


ACT    I 

SCENE — THE  MINISTER'S  STUDY,  a  room  in  a  small  old- 
fashioned  house  in  a  country-town,  very  homely  and  unpreten- 
tious; rather  dingy  old  well-worn  furniture;  a  portrait  of  Letty's 
aunt  in  her  girlhood  at  back;  two  collecting-boxes  on  the 
mantelshe\f. 

Doors  right  and  left.     Bay  window  at  back.     Fireplace  left. 

-fi^/fcr  LYDIA,  the  Minister 's  housekeeper,  an  unromantic- 
looking  woman  of  thirty,  showing  in  LOT  BURDEN, 
a  plain  common  little  fellow  about  thirty-five. 

LYDIA.  The  Minister's  gone  out  for  his  morning 
walk,  but  he'll  be  back  directly. 

LOT.  I've  just  collected  the  quarter's  pew-rents, 
and  I've  brought  the  money. 

(Pulling  a  little  bag  out  of  pocket.} 

LYDIA.  Oh,  give  it  to  me,  Mr.  Burden,  and  I'll 
put  it  away  before  the  Minister  sees  it. 

{Takes  money  and  puts  it  on  tabled) 
Bless  his  heart,  he's  just  like  a  baby  with  his  money  ! 

Lor.     Ah,  we  ought  to  be  as  wise  as  serpents  in 


2  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  i 

this  generation,    Miss  Lydia;  and  Mr.  Fletcher  lets 
everybody  impose  upon  him. 

LYDIA.  To  be  sure  he  does.  If  I  let  him  have 
sixpence  (si/s),  he's  safe  to  give  it  away  to  the  first 
undeserving  beggar  he  meets.  It  makes  me  wild, 
and  me  working  off  my  fingers  to  keep  us  all  decent 
on  less  than  eighty  pounds  a  year. 

LOT  {admiringly).  Ah,  what  a  manager  you  are, 
Miss  Lydia.  I've  always  thought  I  could  never 
afford  to  get  married ;  it's  so  expensive,  and  children 
will  come,  but  with — with  such  a  saving  woman  as 
you,  I — I  think  I  should  like  to  try  it,  Miss  Lydia  ! 

(Nervously   sighing   and  looking  lovingly  at 
LYDIA.) 

LYDIA.  There,  that's  enough,  Mr.  Burden,  don't 
make  them  sheep's-eyes  at  me. 

LOT  (fidgeting  with  chair).  Why  not,  Miss  Lydia? 
We  could  save  money  together ;  and  it's  so  nice  to  save 
money.  And  Mr.  Hoggard  has  just  raised  my  wages. 

LYDIA.     What's  he  done  that  for? 

LOT.  I've  been  a  good  faithful  servant  and  I 
deserve  it. 

LYDIA.  Rubbish !  Mr.  Hoggard  wouldn't  raise 
your  wages  because  you  deserved  it ;  he  ain't  that  sort. 

LOT.  Notwithstanding,  he  has  raised  them;  and 
what  do  you  say,  Miss  Lydia?  Marriage  is  honour- 
able, the  Apostle  says. 

LYDIA.  The  Apostle  had  never  been  married. 
No,  Mr.  Burden,  I'm  much  obliged,  but  I  can't  leave 


ACT  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  3 

the  Minister.  How  do  you  think  he'd  manage  with- 
out me  ? 

LOT.     There's  Miss  Letty. 

LYDIA.  Letty  !  Why,  she  ain't  no  more  use  in 
the  house  than  a  pet  squirrel  or  a  canary-bird. 

LOT.  No,  she  ain't  a  bit  like  us  Chapel  people, 
is  she  ? 

LYDIA.  No,  she  favours  the  Langtons,  her  mother's 
family.  The  Langtons,  was  Church  folk,  and  always 
very  gay  and  worldly. 

LOT.     Ah,  didn't  one  of  the  Miss  Langtons  - 


Yes,  but  that  ain't  neither  here  nor  there. 
Miss  Letty  it  was,  that's  her  picture. 

{Pointing  to  picture.} 
Our  Miss  Letty  is  named  after  her. 

LOT.  You've  been  with  the  Minister  a  good  many 
years,  Miss  Lydia. 

LYDIA.  Ever  since  I  was  nine  years  old,  and 
could  light  a  fire  and  clean  a  saucepan. 

LOT.  Talking  about  Miss  Letty,  Steve  Williams 
says  as  he's  seen  her  several  evenings  in  the  Lovers' 
Walk  with  that  Captain  Fanshawe,  from  the  Great 
House. 

LYDIA.  What  !  Our  Letty  walking  out  with  such 
a  man  as  that  !  Steve  Williams  must  be  mistook. 

LOT.     He  said  he  was  sure. 

LYDIA.  I  don't  believe  it  !  I'll  ask  her  when  she 
comes  in.  (JACOB  and  PETER  GREENACRE  pass  by 

window  at  back?) 


4  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  i 

Here  comes  the  Minister,  and,  I  declare,  he's  bring- 
ing in  that  drunken  old  Peter  Greenacre. 

JACOB  {outside  door) .    Come  in,  Peter  !    Come  in  ! 

Enter  JACOB  FLETCHER,  a  country  dissenting  minister, 
about  fifty,  very  gentle  and  kindly,  shabbily  dressed. 
He  stands  at  door  holding  it  open  for  GREENACRE, 
•who  shambles  in,  a  disreputable  old  man  with  evi- 
dences of  hard  drinking.  He  stands  hat  in  hand, 
bowing,  and  scraping  his  feet. 

LYDIA.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you'll  let  this 
drunken  old  vagabond  impose  upon  you  again, 
Master? 

JACOB  {rather  timidly).  Well,  you  see,  Lydia,  he's 
spent  all  his  parish  pay,  and  he's  had  nothing  to  eat 
for  two  days,  and  we  can't  let  him  starve,  can  we  ? 

LYDIA.  Yes,  we  can,  and  the  best  thing  he  can 
do. 

JACOB.     Come,  find  him  something  to  eat,  Lydia. 

LYDIA.     Yes,  that's  just  the  way  !     You'll  fat  him 

up  like  the  prodigal  son,  and  he'll  live  till  he's  ninety. 

(  Old  GREENACRE  stands  bowing  and  cringing.} 

JACOB.  Let's  hope  so.  Peter  has  been  no  saint  in 
his  time,  and  we  must  keep  him  alive  till  he  repents. 

GREENACRE  (bowing  and  cringing,  speaks  in  a 
trembling  gin-sodden  voice).  I'm  a  monument  of 
grace,  Muster  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  Nonsense,  Peter !  A  monument  of  gin 
and  water,  you  mean. 


ACT  i  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  5 

GREENACRE.  I've  attended  your  ministry  for  the 
last  twenty-five  years,  Muster  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  Ah,  that  shows  what  bad  sermons  I 
preach,  or  you  wouldn't  have  been  so  drunk  last 
Wednesday. 

GREENACRE.     The  flesh  is  weak,  Muster  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  And  the  gin  at  the  "  Three  Pigeons  "  is 
strong,  eh? 

GREENACRE.  I'm  regular  in  my  place  at  Chapel 
every  Sunday  evening,  Muster  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  You  are,  Peter,  and  every  week-day  evening 
you're  just  as  regular  in  your  place  at  the  public-house. 

GREENACRE.  I  never  neglect  the  means  of  grace, 
Muster  Fletcher. 

LYDIA.  No,  nor  the  chance  of  wheedling  a  meal 
out  of  the  Minister. 

JACOB.  Ah  well,  Lydia  (rises),  don't  be  too  hard 
on  him.  He  isn't  the  only  one  who  makes  a  com- 
fortable living  out  of  coming  regularly  to  Church  or 
Chapel.  (  Going  up  to  bookcase.} 

LYDIA  (snatching  up  the  bag  of  money  that  LOT  has 
brought  in,  pushes  GREENACRE  before  her).  There  ! 
Be  off  into  the  kitchen,  you  old  rascal !  And  the 
next  time  you  come  sponging  on  the  Minister,  I'll 
give  you  a  glass  of  gin  and  water  with  poison  in  it,  I 
will,  as  sure  as  you're  a  living  sinner  ! 

(Hustling  him  off  at  door.) 

GREENACRE.     Thank'ee,  Miss  Lydia,  thank'ee. 
(Exit,  pushed  off  by  LYDIA.) 


6  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  I 

JACOB.    Well,  Lot,  what  is  it  ? 

LOT.  The  pew-rents  have  fallen  a  good  deal  this 
quarter,  sir.  Only  fourteen  pounds  odd. 

JACOB.     Oh,  only  fourteen  pounds,  eh? 

{Looks  up  and  down  his  coat,  which  is  very 

old  and  much  darned.} 

Well,  after  all,  new  clothes  are  very  uncomfortable, 
and  when  a  coat  has  served  you  well  for  six  or  seven 
years,  and  got  to  be  a  sort  of  companion,  it's  ungrate- 
ful to  throw  it  away  because  it's  getting  a  little  bit 
shabby ;  it's  like  passing  by  an  old  friend  because  he's 
down  in  the  world. 

LOT.  You  see,  Mr.  Fletcher,  you  don't  go  the 
right  way  to  increase  the  pew-rents. 

JACOB.     No,  Lot  ?     How's  that  ? 

LOT.  Why,  all  the  poor  folks  of  the  town  come 
to  Bethel ;  all  the  scum,  all  the  riff-raff,  all  the 
publicans  and  sinners,  as  you  may  say. 

JACOB.  Well,  yes ;  they're  the  very  people  that  I 
want  to  come. 

LOT.  But  they've  got  the  best  seats  in  the  Chapel, 
and  they  don't  pay  pew-rents. 

JACOB.     They  can't  afford  to  buy  their  religion. 

LOT.  Then  they  ought  to  take  it  in  the  gallery, 
and  be  thankful.  If  we  were  to  put  them  in  the  back 
seats,  we  should  get  some  fashionable  folk  in  the  front 
pews. 

JACOB  (rises}.  No,  Lot,  we'll  let  it  stay  as  it  is. 
There  are  plenty  of  places  where  the  poor  have  to 


ACT  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  7 

take  back  seats ;  we'll  keep  one  place  where  the  rich 
and  the  poor  shall  meet  together  and  be  equal. 

LOT.  Well,  sir,  I'm  sorry,  but  the  cause  ain't 
prospering  in  a  pecuniary  sense ;  and  if  you  please, 
sir,  I  should  like  to  give  you  five  shillings  a  quarter 
more.  Mr.  Hoggard  has  just  raised  my  wages. 

JACOB.  Has  he?  It's  very  generous  of  him, 
because  he  told  me  that  business  had  gone  down 
since  Mr.  Bristow's  death. 

LOT  {looking  fixedly  at  JACOB)  .  Oh  !  Have  you 
quite  decided  to  take  Mrs.  Bristow's  money  out  of 
the  business? 

JACOB.  Yes.  You  see,  Lot,  I  am  Mrs.  Bristow's 
only  surviving  trustee,  and  if  the  business  is  really 
going  down 

LOT  (with  meaning).  Don't  you  do  anything  in  a 
hurry,  sir. 

JACOB.  What  do  you  mean,  Lot?  You  make 
me  feel  very  uncomfortable.  Poor  Mr.  Bristow  left 
his  wife  and  children  in  my  care,  and  I'd  rather  lose 
my  own  money  than  theirs,  and — and — you  know 
I'm  no  hand  at  money-matters.  Mr.  Crisp  has  valued 
everything. 

LOT.     Yes,  I  know,  sir.    Crisp  is  Hoggard's  valuer. 

JACOB.  And  ours  too.  Do  you  know  anything 
against  him  ? 

LOT.  Oh  sir,  Hoggard's  my  master,  and  he'd  turn 
me  off  if  he  knew  I'd  mentioned  this. 

JACOB.     He  shan't  know  it.     Go  on,  Lot,  tell  me. 


8  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  I 

LOT.  Well,  sir,  don't  you  let  Mrs.  Bristow  go  out 
of  that  business  at  Mr.  Crisp's  valuation.  You  have 
a  new  valuer  {emphatically),  as  sharp  a  one  as  you 
can  get.  I  dursn't  say  any  more. 

JACOB  {pause — looks  at  him).  Thank  you,  Lot. 
You  have  said  quite  enough.  Mr.  Hoggard  will  be 
here  directly,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  act. 

LOT.  Don't  you  thwart  him,  sir;  he's  a  great 
support  to  Bethel.  He  pays  twenty  pounds  a  year 
pew-rent.  He's  a  hard  man,  and  if  you  once  go 
against  him,  he'll  pay  you  home,  as  sure  as  his  name's 
Hoggard.  (HOGGARD  passes  window?) 

Here  he  is.  Don't  let  him  see  me  here,  sir,  he 
might  suspect.  I'll  go  out  this  way  through  the 
passage.  {Exit  quickly  at  side  door.) 

JACOB.  I'm  very  glad  I  happened  to  see  Lot. 
In  another  hour  I  should  have  signed  the  deed. 

Enter  LYDIA  showing  in  HOGGARD,  a  blustering  well- 
to-do  middle-aged  man  of  business,  pushing  LYDIA 
aside. 
HOGGARD.     All  right,  my  good  woman.     I  know 

my  way.  (Exit  LYDIA.) 

HOGGARD    (in    a    loud   patronising    tone).      Ah, 

Fletcher,  good-morning,  good-morning  (giving  hand) . 
JACOB    (shaking    hands') .      Good  -  morning,    Mr. 

Hoggard. 

(HOGGARD  seats  himself,  stretches  his  legs,  rubs 
his  hands?) 


ACT  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  9 

HOGGARD.     Very  hot,  ain't  it  ? 

JACOB.  Yes,  it's  splendid  weather  for  our  Sunday 
school  treat. 

HOGGARD.  Ah,  I'm  going  out  that  way  to-morrow. 
Lovely  scenery,  Rodimore  Woods.  I've  a  great  eye 
for  natural  beauty  myself.  I'm  going  out  that  way  to 
see  if  I  can  get  a  bit  of  land  for  a  new  tanyard.  I 
may  drop  across  you.  Well  (rubbing  his  hands),  sup- 
pose we  get  to  business,  eh?  (Draws  chair  up.) 
You  got  my  note  ? 

JACOB  (hesitating nervously).  Yes,  and  I've  decided 
not  to  take  Mrs.  Bristow's  money  out  of  the  business 
at  present. 

HOGGARD  (blankly  staring  at  JACOB).  I  don't 
understand  you,  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  I  should  like  first  to  have  the  property 
valued  by  another  valuer. 

HOGGARD.  Well,  I'm  astonished  !  I'm  perfectly 
astounded  !  To  think  what  a  set  of  unbusiness-like 
idiots  there  are  in  the  world. 

(Rising,  puts  chair  back.) 

Why,  my  dear  sir,  Crisp  has  prepared  the  deed, 
and  I  really  can't  allow  you  to  open  the  ques- 
tion. 

JACOB  (quietly).  I  haven't  closed  it  yet,  Mr. 
Hoggard. 

HOGGARD.     What  ?    Oh,  come,  come,  come  ! 

(Follows  him  up.) 
This  is  really  very  absurd  !    This  won't  do  !     I  must 


io  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  i 

insist  on  our  bargain.    Come,  Fletcher,  I  know  you've 
had  a  lot  of  trouble  in  this  matter,  and — 

(  Takes  out  his  purse,  takes  out  two  notes,  puts 

them  on  table  in  front  of  JACOB.) 
I  meant  to  give  you  this  last  Christmas.     There,  take 
them  !     Take  them  ! 

(Pushing  the  notes  towards  JACOB.) 
JACOB.    What's  this  for,  Mr.  Hoggard  ? 
HOGGARD.     Why,  you've   been   trying   to   do  me 
out  of  my  fair  bargain,  but  I  don't  cherish  an   un- 
Christian  spirit.      There  !     Take  them  !      Put  them 
in  your  pocket !  (Pushes  notes  towards  JACOB.) 

JACOB.  No,  Mr.  Hoggard.  I  can't  take  a  bribe 
to  blind  my  eyes,  and  prevent  my  judgment. 

HOGGARD.  Bribe !  Bribe !  Have  I  been  your 
deacon  all  these  years,  and  do  you  think  I  would 
offer  you  a  bribe  ? 

JACOB.     Then    you    offer    me    this    money   quite 
apart  from  Mrs.  Bristow's  affairs? 
HOGGARD.    Of  course  I  do. 

(JACOB  goes  to  shelf,  takes  off  two  boxes,  one 

marked  "For  the  Poor"  and  the   other 

"  Contributions  to  Steepleford  Hospital") 

JACOB.     Then  will   you   please   put  one  of  these 

notes  into  the  poor-box,  and  the  other  in  the  hospital 

box?  (Puts  boxes  in  front  of  HOGGARD.) 

HOGGARD.  Eh !  Eh !  Well,  if  you  choose  to 
fling  the  money  into  the  gutter. 

(About  to  put  the  money  into  the  box.) 


ACT  i  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  u 

No  !  on  second  thoughts  you've  made  a  very  serious 
imputation  on  my  character,  and  I'll  put  the  money 
back  in  my  purse. 

{Does  so,  and  buttons  up  his  pocket?) 

JACOB.     Mr.  Hoggard — 

{Puts  boxes  on  shelf  again — comes  round  table.} 
do  you  consider  Mr.  Crisp's  valuation  fair  or  unfair  ? 

HOGGARD.     Of  course  it's  fair. 

JACOB.  Then  why  do  you  object  to  another 
valuer? 

HOGGARD  (cornered}.  Eh?  Look  here,  Fletcher, 
you  parsons  do  not  understand  business.  You  can't. 
It  isn't  in  your  way. 

JACOB.  Well,  if  business  means  taking  advantage 
of  your  neighbour,  I'm  very  glad  it  isn't  in  my  way. 
Come,  you'll  help  me  to  give  poor  Mrs.  Bristow  her 
just  rights?  Yes,  you  will. 

{Putting  his  hand  on  HOGGAKD'S  shoulder} 
We  are  what  they  call  professors  of  religion ;  let  us 
act  up  to  what  we  preach — don't  let  us  say  one  thing 
with  our  lips  and  another  with  our  lives. 

HOGGARD  {uneasy,  shuffling  away  from  JACOB). 
Look  here,  Fletcher,  you're  my  minister,  but  I  won't 
be  preached  to  on  week-days.  Sunday  is  the  day  for 
preaching. 

JACOB.  Yes,  but  every  day  is  the  day  for  practice. 
{After  a  pause,  very  firmly.}  I  cannot  sign  that  deed, 
Mr.  Hoggard. 

HOGGARD.     What?    You  break  your  word !     You 


12  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  I 

— dare — you  forget  who  I  am,  you  forget  that  I  can 
turn  you  out  of  house  and  home,  and — and — I  will, 
too, — you — you — 

{Spluttering  with  anger,  unable  to  contain  him- 
self, then  changing  to  a  soft  wheedling  tone .} 
Come  now,  Fletcher,  it  isn't  to  our  interest  to  quarrel. 
Come  now,  you  stick  to  your  bargain,  and  I'll  raise  my 
pew-subscription  to  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

JACOB.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Hoggard,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you  for  offering  it  to  me,  because  it  shows 
me  that  Mr.  Crisp's  valuation  must  be  very  unfair; 
but  I  don't  quite  see  my  way  to  taking  money  for 
betraying  my  trust. 

Enter  LETTY  in  outdoor  clothes,  a  pretty  country-girl 
about  twenty-one.  HOGGARD  stands,  pale  and 
venomous,  speechless  for  a  few  moments. 

HOGGARD.  Very  well,  sir.  I  have  half-supported 
you  all  these  years,  and  this  is  your  return  for  my 
kindness,  you  beggarly  conscientious  pauper. 

(LETTY  runs  to  her  father  and  throws   her 

arms  round  his  neck.) 

JACOB.  Not  quite  a  pauper,  Mr.  Hoggard.  I'm 
so  rich  that  I  don't  need  to  covet  from  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless. 

LETTY  (to  HOGGARD  indignantly).  How  dare  you 
insult  my  father  ?  How  dare  you  ? 

(JACOB  quiets  LETTY.) 
HOGGARD  {to  JACOB)  .    Very  well,  sir.     If  you're  as 


ACT  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  13 

rich  as  all  that  you  won't  need  any  more  help  from  me, 
so  I  discontinue  rny  twenty  pounds  a  year  pew-rent 
from  this  time  ;  and  I  warn  you,  the  first  chance  I  get, 
the  first  slip  you  make,  out  of  our  chapel  and  out  of 
this  house  you  go,  both  of  you.  (Exit.) 

LETTY.  Father,  you  shall  not  endure  it.  Why 
didn't  you  get  very  angry  with  him  ? 

JACOB.     My  dear,  he  isn't  worth  it. 

LETTY.  Oh,  how  I  hate  him  !  How  sick  I  am 
of  it  all ! 

(  Throwing  her  hat  and  cloak  off  on  chair.*) 

JACOB.     Sick  of  what,  dear? 

LETTY.  Of  this  silly  town,  and  our  silly  people. 
Everything  in  Steepleford  is  so  commonplace,  and  so 
respectable,  and  nothing  ever  happens,  and  you  and 
I  are  buried  under  it  all !  Oh,  how  I  wish  that 
something  would  happen  !  Anything  !  Anything  ! 

JACOB.  Well,  there's  the  Sunday  school  treat 
to-rporrow. 

LETTY.  Yes,  but  that's  only  buns  and  milk  and 
water.  Oh,  I  wish — I  wish — I  wish — oh  daddy,  I'm 
so  tired  of  this  dull,  stupid  life  !  I  wish  something 
would  happen  to  take  me  out  of  it. 

JACOB.  Well,  dear,  I  suppose  you  will  be  taken 
out  of  it  when — George  has  saved  up  enough  money. 

LETTY.  Now  you  know  you're  talking  nonsense, 
daddy. 

JACOB.  I  thought,  dear,  that  George — eh?  He's 
very  fond  of  you,  Letty. 


14  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  I 

LETTY.  Is  he?  Well,  I  can't  help  people  falling 
in  love  with  me.  There's  no  Act  of  Parliament  against 
it,  and  if  people  will  do  these  foolish  things  they  must 
take  the  consequences. 

JACOB.  Then  if  George — you  wouldn't  like — eh, 
Letty  ? 

LETTY.  I  shouldn't  like  to — to  leave  you,  daddy. 
But,  oh,  I  should  like  to  leave  Steepleford. 

JACOB.     Leave  Steepleford  ! 

LETTY.  Yes,  and  go  about  with  an  organ  and  g 
monkey,  or  a  waxwork  show,  or  a  shooting-gallery, 
or  anything  that's  exciting,  and  not  quite  respect- 
able. You  know  you  could  grind  the  organ,  daddy, 
eh? 

JACOB  (smiling) ,  Well,  that  would  be  easier  work 
than  grinding  out  sermons. 

LETTY.  Yes,  and  so  much  better  fun.  And  I'd 
teach  the  monkey  its  tricks,  and  wear  a  pretty  dress, 
and  go  round  with  the  hat. 

JACOB.     I  think  we  should  get  a  few  coppers. 

LETTY.  Yes,  and  see  lots  of  life.  ( Clapping  he* 
hands.)  Oh  daddy,  do  say  "  Yes."  (  Very  animated} 

JACOB  (sits — aside).  How  like  she  grows  to  hei 
aunt.  (Troubled.}  {Glances  at  picture?) 

LETTY.     What  are  you  thinking  of,  daddy? 

JACOB.     Of  your  aunt,  Letty. 

LETTY.  Oh,  do  tell  me  about  her.  You've  pro> 
raised  me  so  many  times. 

JACOB.     Not  now,  darling,  another  time. 


ACT  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  15 

LETTY  (looking  up  at  portrait} .  How  happy  she 
looks. 

JACOB.  Yes,  there.  (Sighs.)  She  changed  after- 
wards. 

LETTY.     Is  it  a  love  story,  daddy? 

JACOB.     Yes,  with  a  sad  ending. 

LETTY  (very  animated}.  A  love  story  with  a  sad 
ending.  Oh,  do  tell  me  !  Do  tell  me  ! 

GEORGE  KINGSMILL,  a  young  farmer,  opens  door,  stands 
nervously  at  it,  not  liking  to  come  in. 

JACOB.     George  !     Come  in,  my  lad. 

GEORGE  (embarrassed) .  Good  -  morning,  Mr. 
Fletcher.  Good  -  morning,  Miss  Letty.  I — I — hope 
— I {Stops  confused?) 

JACOB.     Sit  down,  George. 

LETTY  (going).  Yes,  sit  down,  Mr.  Kingsmill.  I 
know  I'm  in  the  way,  so  I'll  go. 

GEORGE  (rising).  No,  Miss  Fletcher,  don't  go. 
I  came  on  purpose 

LETTY.  To  have  a  chat  with  daddy,  of  course 
you  did. 

GEORGE.     No — no,  indeed,  I — I 

LETTY.  Why,  what  else  could  you  have  come 
for?  I'll  be  very  good,  and  run  away,  and  won't 
disturb  you  once. 

(Runs   off  laughing,  GEORGE  following  her 
with  hungry  eyes.) 

GEORGE.     She   always   runs   away  the   moment   I 


1 6  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  I 

come  !  Oh  Mr.  Fletcher,  I  can't  help  it.  I  know 
I'm  a  great  fool,  but  I'm  mad  with  heartache  for  her  ! 
One  morning  when  she  was  going  to  school — it's  nine 
years  ago  now — she  dropped  her  red  comforter  out  of 
mischief,  and  I  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to  her,  and 
then  she  ran  away  and  blew  me  a  kiss  out  of  mischief, 
and  ever  since  then  I've  thought  of  nobody  but  her. 
If  I  live  a  hundred  years  I  shall  never  love  anybody 
but  her.  She's  more  to  me  than  light  to  my  eyes. 
She's  more  than  life  to  me.  I'm  stifled  when  I  try 
to  speak  to  her — when  she  touches  my  hand  it  goes 
through  me  like  sweet  fire ;  you  don't  know  how 
much  I  love  her — I'd  die  for  her,  and  she  doesn't 
care  a  pin's  head  for  me.  (Sobbing.) 

And  so  I've  come  to  say  "  Good-bye  "  to  her  before  I 
leave  England. 

JACOB.     Good-bye  !     Leave  England  ! 

GEORGE.  Yes.  Farming's  been  bad  work  lately. 
I'm  going  to  Australia  to  try  my  luck  there. 

JACOB.  Going  to  Australia !  Well,  George,  we 
shall  be  sorry  to  lose  you,  but  perhaps  you  are 
right.  There's  more  breathing-room  out  there.  But 
Letty 

GEORGE.  Oh  Mr.  Fletcher,  if  she  would  but  give 
me  a  word  of  hope  before  I  go  !  If  she'd  only  say 
that  some  day  she  might  turn  to  me,  I'd  work  so 
hard  for  her.  Will  you  say  a  good  word  for  me,  Mr. 
Fletcher? 

JACOB.     Why,  so  I  have,  but  love-making's  a  sort 


ACT  I  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  17 

of  broth  that  too  many  cooks  very  easily  spoil.     But 
I'll  call  her,  and  you  shall  speak  for  yourself. 

(  Goes  to  door  and  calls.) 
Letty  ! 

GEORGE  (desperately).  Do  you  think  I  stand  any 
chance,  sir? 

JACOB.  Why  not?  Letty's  young  yet,  and  she 
doesn't  know  her  own  mind.  Keep  up  your  courage 
— speak  to  her  as  you  have  been  speaking  to  me, 
and  I  don't  think  she  can  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
refuse  you.  Here  she  is. 

LETTY  enters  demurely. 

LETTY  (demurely) .     Is  your  gossip  over,  daddy  ? 

JACOB.  Yes,  dear.  We've  been  talking  of  you ; 
haven't  we,  George?  You  know,  dear — I  think,  that 
is,  George  thinks — well,  George  will  tell  you  what  he 
thinks.  {Going.} 

LETTY.     Where  are  you  going,  daddy? 

JACOB.     I'm  going  to — to  look  after  the  chickens. 

LETTY.     Shan't  I  look  after  them,  daddy? 

JACOB   (quickly).     No,   no.     (Aside  to   GEORGE.) 

Speak  up,  George,  don't  be  frightened,  and 

(Looking  out  of  window) 

{Aloud.)      That   little   bantam's    fighting    again  !      I 
really  must  lock  him  up.  (Exit  quickly) 

GEORGE.     Letty,  you  know  what  I  want  to  say  to 
you — but  the  words  won't  come, 
c 


1 8  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  I 

LETTY.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry !  A  dictionary !  I'll 
fetch  you  a  dictionary.  (  Goes  up  to  bookcase?) 

GEORGE.     Letty,  don't  tease  me.       (Meets  her.) 
Don't  you  know  what  I've  come  to  tell  you? 

LETTY  (pretending  to  be  puzzled).  No,  I  cannot 
imagine.  Is  it  about  old  Dubleton's  cough? 

(  Comes  down.) 

GEORGE.  This  isn't  a  joking  matter  for  me, 
Letty ! 

LETTY.  No,  it's  very  serious.  Lydia  and  I  are 
making  him  some  flannels  for  the  winter. 

GEORGE  (maddened).  Letty,  I'm  dying  with 
thirst 

LETTY.  And  there's  nothing  but  milk  in  the 
house. 

GEORGE.  I'm  dying  with  thirst  for  your  love, 
Letty,  and,  God  forgive  you  !  you  laugh  at  me. 

(  Taking  up  his  hat  and  rushing  off.) 

LETTY  (genuinely  penitent,  stops  hint).  No,  no, 
Mr.  Kingsmill,  stay.  It's  wicked  of  me  to  torment 
you,  but  it  isn't  I,  it's  the  little  bird  of  mischief  inside 
me ;  but  indeed — indeed  I  feel  very  much  honoured 
by  your  love,  and  I  wish  I  could  love  you  back 
again. 

GEORGE.     And — won't  you — can't  you  ? 

(Takes  her  hands.) 

LETTY.  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  tried.  You 
see  I  have  scarcely  had  any  offers  yet,  and  I  should 
like  to  refuse  a  lot  before  I  quite  make  up  my  mind. 


ACT  i  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  19 

GEORGE.  Oh  Letty,  if  you  had  the  choice  of  a 
thousand  men  you  wouldn't  find  one  who  could  love 
you  as  I  do  !  Letty,  I  am  going  away  from  England 
for  years — for  years 

LETTY.     I'm  so  sorry ;  why  are  you  going  ? 

GEORGE.  Let  me  go  to  make  a  home  for  you, 
Letty.  I  will  work  so  hard  for  you,  as  faithfully  as 
Jacob  served  for  Rachel,  and  all  the  years  of  waiting 
will  seem  but  a  day  for  the  love  I  bear  you.  Don't 
send  me  away  in  despair;  give  me  something — yes, 
that  little  coral  necklace  you  wear, — give  it  to  me  that 
I  may  keep  in  dear  remembrance  of  you,  and  in  the 
hope  that  one  day  you  may  learn  to  love  me,  and  be 
my  wife, — yes,  give  it  to  me. 

(LETTY  takes  off  necklace,  is  about  to  give  it  to 
GEORGE,  then  puts  it  back.} 

LETTY.  No,  it  would  be  cruel  to  bid  you  hope 
when — when  I  know  it  is  impossible. 

GEORGE.  Letty,  a  few  months  ago,  when  you 
kissed  that  bunch  of  violets  and  gave  them  to  me  to 
wear,  you  did  love  me  a  little  then? 

LETTY.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Mr.  Kingsmill,  it  was 
very  wrong  of  me  to  encourage  you. 

GEORGE.  But  tell  me  the  truth.  You  did  love 
me  a  little  then  ? 

LETTY.    Yes,  perhaps  I  did  (sighs) — then. 

GEORGE.  And  now?  What  has  come  between 
us?  Who  has  stolen  your  heart  from  me?  You 
don't  answer ! 


20  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  i 

LETTY.     You  have  no  right  to  ask 

GEORGE.     Then  there  is  somebody? 

LETTY.  I  don't  know.  Oh  Mr.  Kingsmill,  I'm 
not  worthy  of  your  great  love  !  I'm  only  a  foolish 
flighty  girl,  and  whatever  happens  to  me  I  shall  bring 
no  happiness  to  them  that  love  me.  Go  away  and 
forget  me  !  I  mean  it — forget  me  ! 

GEORGE.     Is  that  your  last  word  to  me,  Letty? 

LETTY.  Yes,  forget  me  ;  it  will  be  better  for  you. 
Go  away  and  forget  me. 

(GEORGE  goes  to  door,  looks  at  her  with 
passionate  longing.} 

GEORGE.  When  my  heart  forgets  to  beat  I  shall 
forget  you,  Letty.  (Exit  rapidly?) 

LETTY.  How  good  and  true  he  is  !  How  safe 
and  sure  of  happiness  I  should  be  if  I  were  his  wife  ! 
While  he  was  speaking  I  felt  I  almost  loved  him ;  and 
yet,  how  different  he  is  from  Eustace — Eustace  Fan- 
shawe;  and  he  loves  me  too — at  least  he  said  so 
the  other  night.  What  am  I  saying  ? 

(  Goes  to  window} 

Oh,  if  I  had  but  the  courage  to  see  him  no  more. 
If  I  dared  but  refuse  to  meet  him.  Oh,  to  be  loved 
by  these  two  men,  and  to  feel  that  I  shall  leave  the 
good  and  choose  the  evil ! 

LYDIA  enters,  speaking  off. 
LYDIA.    You  can  wait  in  here. 


ACT  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  21 

FANSHAWE  enters,  a  handsome,  reckless,  nonchalant 
military  man  about  forty.  LETTY  starts  back  in 
confusion.  LYDIA  noticing  LETTY'S  confusion. 

LYDIA.  This  gentleman  wants  to  see  the  Min- 
ister. I  don't  know  what's  his  business. 

FANSHAWE.  That's  my  business.  Will  you  tell 
Mr.  Fletcher  I  want  to  see  him  ? 

LETTY.  My  father  is  in  the  garden,  Lydia.  Will 
you  tell  him? 

LYDIA.  Oh  yes,  I'll  tell  him.  (Aside.)  And  I'll 
tell  the  Minister  too  what  Lot  Burden  told  me  this 
morning.  (Exit.) 

LETTY  (reproachful,  pleased).  Why  have  you  come 
here? 

FANSHAWE.    To  see  you,  Letty  !     Are  you  angry  ? 

LETTY.    Yes,  very  angry. 

FANSHAWE.  Well,  then,  I  came  to  see  your  father 
and  give  him  a  ten-pound  note  for  his  charities.  I 
know  it's  a  very  bad  excuse,  but  it  was  the  best  I 
could  think  of,  and  I  was  determined  to  see  you. 

LETTY  (pleased).     Even  if  it  cost  you  ten  pounds? 

FANSHAWE.     If  it  cost  a  thousand — a  million  ! 

LETTY.  Well,  then,  you  have  seen  me.  Good- 
morning. 

FANSHAWE.  Stay !  Why  were  you  not  in  the 
Lovers'  Walk  last  evening? 

LETTY.     Because  I  chose  to  stay  at  home. 

FANSHAWE.    You  will  be  there  to-night? 


22  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  ACT  i 

LETTY.  No,  Captain  Fanshawe,  I  shall  not  meet 
you  again. 

FANSHAWE.  Very  well,  don't.  I'll  meet  you 
instead.  Where's  the  harm? 

LETTY.     The  harm  is  I  have  not  told  my  father. 

(  Going.) 

FANSHAWE.  Wait.  You  shall  not  go.  You  will 
be  there  to-night? 

LETTY.     No,  it  is  the  Dorcas  meeting. 

(Turns.) 

FANSHAWE.  Deuce  take  the  Dorcas  meeting ! 
To-morrow  ? 

LETTY.     No,  it's  our  Sunday  school  treat. 

FANSHAWE.  Ah,  I'm  fond  of  Sunday  school 
treats.  I  shall  be  there. 

LETTY.     Captain  Fanshawe,  I  forbid  you. 

(Indignantly.) 

FANSHAWE.  Why,  so  you  shall,  when  you  do  it 
in  that  pretty  way;  but  all  the  same  I  shall  come. 
Where  do  you  hold  this  treat? 

LETTY  (after  a  pause).  Down  the  river  at  the 
ferry,  and  across  to  Rodimore  Woods. 

FANSHAWE.  How  lucky !  I  shall  be  there  fishing 
to-morrow. 

LETTY.  Captain  Fanshawe,  you  must  not  come 
unless  you  ask  my  father's  consent. 

FANSHAWE.  I  never  ask  anybody's  consent.  I 
always  do  as  I  please.  What  time  do  you  break  up 
to-morrow  night  ? 


ACT  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  23 

LETTY.     I  don't  know.     About  sunset,  I  suppose. 

FANSHAWE  (coming  close  to  her,  whispering  in  her 
ear) .  Suppose  by  any  chance  you  happened  to  loiter 
behind  the  rest,  I  shall  be  in  the  woods ;  suppose  by 
any  chance  you  happen  to  lose  your  way,  I  shall  be 
sure  to  find  you ;  suppose  we  thought  it  pleasant  to 
row  back  to  Steepleford  in  the  twilight,  I  shall  have 
my  boat  there  just  above  the  ferry.  You  will,  little 
witch,  you  will,  Letty? 

LETTY.    No,  indeed,  I  shall  not.  ( Going.) 

FANSHAWE.     You  will !      You  must !     You  shall ! 

(Seizing  her,  kisses  her  hand  passionately.) 
I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  kisses  to  one  you  will. 

JACOB  has  entered,  stern  and  distressed. 

JACOB.  Sir,  who  are  you,  and  what  business  have 
you  in  my  house? 

(LETTY  stands  covered  with  shamed) 

FANSHAWE.  Your  daughter  had  the  misfortune 
to  get  stranded  on  the  sandbank  in  the  river  a  few 
days  ago,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  rescuing  her, 
and 

JACOB  (sternly).  And  does  that  give  you  the 
right  to  come  here  and  treat  her  with  this  freedom 
and  disrespect? 

(Takes  up  FANSHAWE'S  hat,  which  is  on  table?) 
My  daughter  and  I  are  not  of  your  class ;  we  do  not 

desire  your  acquaintance. 

(  Giving  him  the  hat.) 


24  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  i 

Your  hat,  sir  !  When  I  wish  to  see  you  in  my  house 
again  I  will  send  for  you. 

FANSHAWE  (aside).  I'll  take  your  daughter's 
opinion  on  the  matter,  my  friend.  {Exit.) 

JACOB.     Letty ! 

LETTY  (who  has  stood  shamefaced  since  JACOB'S 
entrance}.  Father,  do  not  speak  to  me.  Let  me  go 
to  my  room. 

JACOB.  No,  my  dear;  hear  me  first.  You 
asked  me  for  your  aunt  Letty's  history  just  now. 
Look  at  that  picture ;  she  was  once  as  happy  and  as 
lovely  and  innocent  as  you  are  now.  A  few  years 
and  she  came  back  to  die  in  our  arms,  her  heart 
broken,  her  beauty  and  innocence  gone. 

LETTY  (frightened,  ashamed).  Oh  father,  no 
more ;  say  no  more.  I  have  been  foolish,  but  not 
wicked;  and  see  (taking  off  coral  necklace},  a  good 
man  asked  me  for  my  love  this  morning.  Look  ! 
send  this  to  George  Kingsmill,  and  tell  him  that  if 
he  will  give  me  time  to  learn  to  love  him,  and  to 
grow  worthy  of  his  love,  I  will  be  his  wife  one  day. 

JACOB  (clasping  her).  My  Letty!  My  own! 
You  make  me  so  happy,  for  now  I  know  you  are 
safe. 

CURTAIN. 
(  One  day  elapses  between  Acts  I.  and  II.) 


ACT   II 

SCENE  I 

RODIMORE  WOODS,  a  glade  with  sunset  through  the 
trees.     The  river  at  back,  with  boat. 

LEESON,  FANSHAWE'S  valet,  is  discovered  looking  off, 

with  fishing-rod  in  hand,  disjointing  it. 
LEESON.     What's  the  governor  want  dodging  after 
these  Sunday  school  brats  for?    Sunday  schools  ain't 
much  in  his  way  !  (Goes  up,  takes  up  creel.) 

If  ever  there  was  a  devil  on  the  face  of  this  earth, 
it's  Captain  Eustace  Fanshawe  ! 

FANSHAWE  enters  hurriedly.     Looking  off. 

FANSHAWE.     Put   down   that   cursed   tackle,   any- 
where, throw  it  into  the  river. 

(LEESON  throws  it  off.) 

Come  here.     (Takes  letter  out  of  pocket.)     You  see 
that  young  lady  a  little  to  the  left  of  those  children. 

(Points  off.) 
LEESON.    Yes,  sir. 


26  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

FANSHAWE  (giving  letter) .  Take  this  note  to  her. 
Wait  till  you  have  a  chance  of  giving  it  to  her  alone. 
.  .  .  There,  she's  moving  away  from  the  others,  make 
haste  !  (Exit  LEESON  with  note.} 

I  won't  give  her  up.  I  can't !  she's  too  charming  ! 
If  she  were  only  a  fiftieth  part  as  charming,  I  might 
screw  up  the  half-farthing's  worth  of  virtue  I  have  left 
and  run  away  from  her,  but  as  she  is — No  !  (Looks 
off.)  Ah,  she's  seen  him ;  he's  given  her  the  note ; 
she's  reading  it !  She'll  come  !  She'll  come  !  Give 
her  up,  not  I !  When  a  man  has  been  as  badly  used 
by  womankind  as  I  have  been,  damn  it  all !  he  owes 
it  to  his  own  sense  of  justice  to  be  revenged  on 
womankind  as  often  as  he  can.  (  Chuckling.)  I  don't 
think  I  shall  get  to  be  much  worse  than  I  am  ! 

(Sits  at  foot  of  tree.) 

And  I  might  have  been  a  good  man,  I  suppose, — if  I 
could  have  chosen  my  own  father  and  mother,  and 
if  everything  and  every  creature  I've  met,  from  my 
cradle  upwards,  hadn't  pushed  me  to  the  bad.  If, 
instead  of  meeting  that  other  woman  ten  years  ago,  I 
had  met  with  Letty  Fletcher —  What's  the  good 
of  wishing.  After  all,  there's  a  great  comfort  in  being 
out-and-out  wicked — it's  like  being  soaked  through, 
you  can  defy  the  elements. 

(CHILDREN'S  laughter  heard  off.) 

FANSHAWE  (rises).     Hillo  !  (Looks  off.) 

Her  father  with  a  pack  of  children  at  his  heels  ! 

(Laughter  heard  off.) 


SCENE  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  27 

Yes,  laugh  and  play  !  You  turned  me  out  of  your 
house  yesterday,  you  may  find  your  daughter  has  left 
it  to-morrow !  (Exit.) 

CHILDREN  laugh.  .  .  .  Pause.  JACOB  enters  with  a 
child  on  his  back  and  a  dozen  clinging  round  him. 
They  speak  as  they  enter.  JACOB  stands  panting 
and  wiping  forehead. 

IST  CHILD.     Now  me,  Mr.  Fletcher  !     Now  me  ! 

2ND    CHILD.     No,  me  !    me !   you're   my  donkey 
now. 

IST    CHILD.     No,    it's    my    turn    now.     Be    my 
donkey,  Mr.  Fletcher  !     (JACOB  sits  at  foot  of  tree .) 

JACOB.     I  think  I'm  everybody's  donkey  to-day, 
and  I'm  getting  more  kicks  than  ha'pence. 

(CHILDREN'S   voices  heard  off  at  a  distance 

singing  Tallis's  evening  hymn.) 
Why,  listen  !  (Looks  off.) 

They're  breaking  up.  The  ferryman  leaves  at  twi- 
light !  Now  run  back,  all  of  you,  or  else  you'll  lose 
the  ferry,  and  have  to  stay  in  the  woods  all  night. 

IST    CHILD.      Ain't    you    coming    with    us,   Mr. 
Fletcher? 

JACOB.     No  !     I'm  going  to  walk  back. 

2ND  CHILD.     Oh,  do  come  back  with  us  and  be 
our  donkey  ! 

IST  CHILD.    Yes,  do,  Mr.  Fletcher.     I  like  you 
on  week-days  so  much  better  than  Sundays. 

JACOB.     Why,  how's  that? 


2g  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

IST  CHILD.  Why,  on  Sundays  you  preach  sermons 
ever  so  long,  and  on  week-days  you  give  us  sweets 
and  oranges. 

JACOB.     Loaves  and  fishes  !     Loaves  and  fishes  ! 

LETTY  appears,  looks  on. 

(JACOB  taking  oranges  from  pocket  and  bowl- 
ing them  off.} 

JACOB.  There,  run  back  to  the  others !  And 
wish  them  all  good-night  for  me. 

(Bowls  oranges  off ;  CHILDREN  run  off  after 
them.  LETTY  comes  down,  takes  JACOB'S 
arm  as  he  turns  to  go.) 

LETTY.      Father,  let  me  walk  home  with  you. 

JACOB.  Six  miles  is  too  far  for  you  after  such  a 
day.  Besides,  George  will  be  waiting  for  you  at  the 
station  !  You  haven't  seen  anything  of  him  ? 

LETTY.     No ! 

(The  hymn  in  the  distance  ceases.) 

JACOB.  I  suppose  he  hasn't  come  back  from 
London  yet.  What  a  pity  he  had  started  yesterday 
before  I  could  tell  him  the  good  news  !  And  what  a 
surprise  it  will  be  for  him  when  he  gets  home,  and 
finds  my  letter  and  your  necklace  waiting  for  him, 
won't  it? 

LETTY  (listlessly).  I  daresay  it  will  make  him 
happy. 


SCENE  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  29 

JACOB.     Happy?     He  won't   be   able   to   contain 
his  joy.         (Taking  out  large  old-fashioned  watch.) 
Well,  I  must  be  starting. 

LETTY.     Father,  let  me  come  home  with  you. 

JACOB.  No,  no,  my  dear  !  I  tell  you  it's  too  far, 
and  I  want  to  think  over  my  sermon.  And,  besides, 
my  walking  saves  the  sixpence  train -fare.  They're 
just  breaking  up — go  back  to  them,  you'll  be  home 
before  I  am — and  make  haste — and  (going)  if  you 
should  happen  to  find  somebody  waiting  for  you  at 
home,  you'll  make  him  welcome  till  I  come,  won't 
you  ?  There,  make  haste — look,  they're  crossing  the 
ferry,  I  must  be  starting.  (Exit.) 

LETTY.  He  would  not  take  me  with  him  !  What 
can  I  do?  (Takes  out  FANSHAWE'S  letter,  reads.) 

"  I  must  see  you,  if  only  for  a  moment.  I  am 
waiting  for  you  along  the  river  below  the  ferry.  It  is 
the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet,  I  must  and  will  see 
you"  .  .  .  {Crushes  letter).  No,  I  will  not  see  him 
— it  is  wrong  and  cruel  of  him  to  ask  me,  I  must  not 
love  him.  I  will  go  back  to  the  others  ! 

(FANSHAWE  comes  from  behind  trees.     LETTY 
is  going.) 

LETTY.  No  !  I  will  go  after  my  father,  and  show 
him  this  letter. 

FANSHAWE  (comes  down  and  intercepts  her) .  Where 
are  you  going? 

LETTY  (trembling,  afraid) .     After  my  father. 

FANSHAWE.     You  shan't  go  until  you've  heard  me. 


3o  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

LETTY  (shrinking  away) .  No,  Captain  Fanshawe, 
I  must  not,  I  will  not. 

FANSHAWE  {quickly} .    I  have  something  to  tell  you. 

(  This  scene  to  be  played  quickly,  passionately.") 

LETTY.     What  can  you  have  to  tell  me  ? 

FANSHAWE.  That  I  love  you  desperately,  madly, 
beyond  all  telling,  and  I  will  kill  myself  before  I  will 
give  you  up. 

LETTY.     How  can  you  talk  so  wickedly  ? 

FANSHAWE.  Because  I  am  wicked,  and  because 
I  mean  it.  Yes,  I  tell  you  plainly,  I  am  no  saint, 
but  I  love  you,  as  man  never  loved  woman  before, 
and  you  shall  not  go  from  this  place  till  you  say  you 
love  me.  .  .  .  Tell  me  so,  say  it — say  you  love  me  ! 

(  Very  imperatively,  seizing  her  hands.) 

LETTY.     I  cannot — I  do  not  love  you. 

FANSHAWE.  You  do  love  me.  I  know  it,  and 
you  know  it !  Say  you  love  me  !  Do  you  hear  !  Say 
you  love  me  !  {His  face  close  to  hers,  looking  at  her 
commandingfy.) 

LETTY.  Why  do  you  torture  me  ?  I  will  not  say 
it,  it  would  not  be  true. 

FANSHAWE.  It  is  true  !  I  won't  hear  another 
word  from  those  lips,  and  I  will  not  let  you  go  till 
you  say  it. 

LETTY.  Captain  Fanshawe,  I  have  promised  to 
be  the  wife  of  George  Kingsmill.  .  .  . 


SCENE  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  31 

(CHILDREN'S  voices  are  heard  singing  another 
hymn  at  a  greater  distance.  The  singing 
grows  fainter  during  the  following  scene.) 

FANSHAWE.  Indeed  !  And  when  did  you  promise 
that? 

LETTY.     Yesterday  morning. 

FANSHAWE  (very  tauntingly).  To  please  your 
father  !  Good  girl !  She  does  as  her  father  tells  her ; 
she  takes  her  love  and  she  gives  it  away  to  the  man 
he  chooses  for  her.  Good  God  !  And  I  thought  at 
last  I  had  met  a  woman  who  could  love  me  as  I 
love  her. 

LETTY  {piteously).  You  should  not  speak  to  me 
like  this. 

FANSHAWE.  '  How  should  I  speak  to  you?  I 
love  you ;  I  would  have  taken  you  from  these  dull 
fools,  and  lifted  you  to  the  station  you  were  meant 
for.  I  would  have  given  you  everything  that  heart 
could  wish  for.  I  would  have  spent  my  whole  life  in 
making  you  happy.  I  am  not  a  good  man,  but  you 
could  have  made  me  one — your  love  would  have 
saved  me  ;  I  had  staked  all  my  hopes  upon  it.  I  had 
built  upon  it ;  and  now  you  fling  me  aside,  and  tell 
me  to  hang  or  drown  myself,  or  go  to  the  devil  any 
way  I  choose. 

(Singing  ceases.) 

LETTY.  Oh,  you  will  break  my  heart !  I  did 
not  know  you  loved  me  so  much  !  I  never  dared  to 
hope  to  be  your  wife.  Oh,  what  am  I  saying?  I 


32  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

do  not  love  you.     I   must  not — Captain  Fanshawe, 
let  me  go  !  {Going,  he  stops  her.} 

FANSHAWE.  Tell  me  once,  Letty,  tell  me  once 
before  we  part  for  ever  that  you  love  me,  and  I  will 
set  you  free — say,  "  Eustace,  I  love  you  "  (very  im- 
ploringly) . 

LETTY.      I — I — {madly) — Oh,   you   know   I   love 
you — (shrinking  from  him).     What  have  I  said? 
(FANSHAWE  embraces  her.) 

FANSHAWE.    Ah,  I  knew  it ! 

LETTY  (struggling).  Let  me  go — you  gave  me 
your  word  ! 

FANSHAWE  (releasing  her).  Go,  then,  and  marry 
the  man  you  do  not  love — Go  !  .  .  . 

LETTY  (going  aside,  and  looking  off) .  They've  all 
gone  !  The  ferryman  isn't  there  !  (alarmed}. 

FANSHAWE.  No  !  and  it  would  be  too  late  now 
to  catch  the  train. 

LETTY.  I  must  run  after  my  father,  I  shall  catch 
him  if  I  make  haste.  (Going.) 

FANSHAWE.  No,  I  have  my  boat  here  !  (Looks 
at  watch.}  I'll  row  you  up  to  the  junction,  and  we 
shall  catch  the  last  train  to  Steepleford — 

(LETTY  hesitates.} 

You  don't  trust  me  !     On  my  honour  I  will  take  you 
safely  to  the  station  ! 

(  Offers  hand  to  help  her  into  boat.) 

LETTY.  Indeed  I — I  .  .  .  (struggling,  hesitating, 
looking piteously  at  him). 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  33 

FANSHAWE.  Come,  it's  for  the  last  time  ;  you  shall 
not  refuse  me. 

LETTY  (getting  into  boat) .  Yes,  the  last  time  !  I 
have  given  my  promise  to  George  Kingsmill. 

FANSHAWE  (in  boat).  Keep  it  by  all  means 
(grimly).  (Pushing  off  with  oar.} 

(Boat  glides  off.  Scene  changes  to  Railway 
Station. — During  the  scene,  which  com- 
menced with  lights  full  up,  stage  has  grown 
gradually  quite  dusk.) 


'OUSEBRIDGE  JUNCTION 

Enter  HOGGARD  with  umbrella,  followed  by  LOT 
BURDEN. 

HOGGARD  (looking  at  watch}.  Twenty  minutes  to 
eight ;  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  wait.  Well,  I  think 
we've  done  a  good  stroke  of  business  to-day — eh,  Lot  ? 

PORTER  enters  with  a  box,  puts  it  down,  and  exit 
on  to  platform. 

LOT.     Yes,  sir,  a  capital  stroke  of  business. 

HOGGARD.  Did  you  notice  how  I  twisted  him 
round  my  finger? 

LOT.  Well,  I  think  you  had  the  best  of  the 
bargain. 


34  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

HOGGARD.  I  should  think  I  had,  Lot.  The  fool ! 
That  bit  of  land  is  worth  five  hundred  pounds. 

LOT.  And  you  got  it  for  two  hundred  and  eighty 
by  just  telling  a  few — a  few — urn — urn — stretchers. 

HOGGARD  (sitting  on  box).  That's  what  I  call 
business. 

LOT.  You're  a  shrewd,  clever  man,  sir,  and  no 
mistake. 

HOGGARD.  Well,  I  think  if  a  man  wanted  to  get 
the  better  of  Sam  Hoggard,  he'd  have  to  get  up  un- 
commonly early  in  the  morning.  That  reminds  me, 
we  must  have  an  allowance  on  that  last  lot  of  hides 
from  Birkett. 

LOT.  Well,  sir,  they're  in  splendid  condition  and 
very  cheap  at  the  money. 

HOGGARD.  Then  we  must  get  it  out  of  the  Rail- 
way Company.  Send  in  a  claim  for  damage  in  transit. 

LOT.     How  much  must  I  claim,  sir? 

HOGGARD.  Five  pounds.  We  must  be  sharp  in 
business  nowadays.  Business  is  business.  What 
does  the  Bible  say?  "Seest  thou  a  man  diligent  in  his 
business?  He  shall  stand  before  kings"  ! 

LOT.    Yes,  sir. 

HOGGARD.  You  may  as  well  claim  seven  pounds. 
The  Railway  Company  can  stand  it.  Besides,  it's  no 
sin  to  get  the  better  of  a  Railway  Company. 

(  Going  to  ticket- office?) 
They're  always  robbing  the  public — and  Lot 

LOT.     Yes,  sir. 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND  SINNERS  35 

HOGGARD.  I  raised  your  salary  yesterday  morning, 
not  because  you're  worth  it — but — well,  just  to 
encourage  you. 

LOT.     Thank  you,  sir. 

HOGGARD.  If  you  happen  to  see  Fletcher,  you 
might  tell  him  that  my  affairs  are  in  rather  a  bad  way, 
and  he'd  better  make  sure  of  what  I  offer,  money 
down.  Frighten  him  a  little,  do  you  see,  Lot? 
(winking  and  nudging  LOT)  . 

LOT.     Oh,  very  well,  sir,  I  will. 

HOGGARD.  Yes,  tell  him  I've  been  launching  out, 
speculating  and  trying  to  do  too  much  business.  He's 
fighting  shy  of  his  bargain,  and  wants  to  have  a  new 
valuer  for  Mrs.  Bristow. 

LOT.  Does  he  now,  sir?  How  very  unbusiness- 
like. 

HOGGARD.  I  can't  understand  his  change ;  he 
was  willing  enough  to  take  Crisp's  valuation  last 
week.  Somebody  must  have  been  putting  him  up 
to  this. 

Lor.  Do  you  think  so,  sir?  I  wonder  who  it 
can  be? 

HOGGARD.  You  never  mention  my  affairs  to  him, 
do  you? 

LOT.  Oh  dear  no,  sir.  I  hope  you  know  me 
better  than  that. 

HOGGARD.  I  had  to  talk  to  him  pretty  sharp 
yesterday  morning. 

LOT.     Did  you  find  him  very  obstinate,  sir? 


36  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

HOGGARD.  As  obstinate  as  a  pig.  Couldn't  move 
him. 

LOT.  And  he's  generally  very  easy  about  money- 
matters. 

HOGGARD.  As  green  as  grass.  That's  what  I 
reckoned  upon.  Oh  !  he'll  come  round  I  daresay. 
If  he  doesn't,  I'll  make  Bethel  too  hot  for  him.  I'll 
turn  him  out.  You  know,  Lot,  when  I  set  my  back 
up,  I'm  a  very  nasty  customer. 

LOT.     Yes,  sir,  so  you  are,  a  very  nasty  customer. 

HOGGARD.  But  I  want  to  be  nice  and  amiable 
and  pleasant.  So  you  can  just  give  Fletcher  a  hint 
that  he'd  better  close  with  me  at  once.  (Taking  out 
watch.)  Ten  minutes  to  eight. 

LOT.  Oh,  we've  got  plenty  of  time,  sir,  the  seven 
forty  up-express  ain't  gone  yet,  and  the  Steepleford 
train  can't  start  until  after  she's  left. 

HOGGARD.      Oh   well,   I'll   get   our   tickets.     You 
stick  to  me,  Lot,  and  I  shall  make  something  of  you. 
(Exit  into  booking-office.) 

LOT  (looking  after  him).  Yes,  you'll  make  me  as 
big  a  rascal  and  liar  as  you  are,  if  I  don't  take  care. 
I  know  you,  Sam  Hoggard  !  If  I  were  to  brush  you 
the  wrong  way,  you'd  turn  me  off  without  a  character, 
and  I  might  starve.  Yes,  I'll  keep  in  with  you  as 
long  as  I'm  obliged,  but  if  ever  I  do  get  a  chance  of 

paying  you  back,  Mr.  Samuel  Hoggard 

(Exit  after  HOGGARD.) 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND    SINNERS  37 

FANSHAWE,  with  LETTY'S  cloak  on  his  arm,  enters, 
followed  by  LETTY. 

FANSHAWE.     I  have  brought  you  safely,  you  see. 

LETTY.  Thank  you ;  I  will  not  trouble  you  any 
further. 

FANSHAWE.  You  forget  I  am  going  to  Steepleford 
too,  and  I  will  not  part  from  you  until  we  are  there. 

LETTY.     I  would  rather  go  alone,  indeed  I  would. 

FANSHAWE.     Will  you  never  learn  to  trust  me  ? 

LETTY.  Yes,  yes,  indeed  I  do — it  is  not  that ! 
But  if  any  of  my  father's  congregation  should  see  me 
with  you 

FANSHAWE.    What  would  they  do? 

LETTY.     They  would  talk. 

FANSHAWE.  Would  they?  It  would  be  a  sin  to 
take  away  their  one  pleasure  in  life. 

LETTY.    They  have  already  seen  me  with  you. 

FANSHAWE.  And  if  they  should  see  me  once 
more,  would  there  be  so  much  harm  in  it  ?  To-morrow 
I  shall  have  said  good-bye  to  you  for  ever.  You  shall 
not  cheat  me  out  of  this  one  last  hour. 

LETTY.  Let  me  wait  on  the  other  side,  then. 
Oh,  you  make  me  so  wretched.  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought  that  I  am  driving  you  to  be  a  bad  man. 

FANSHAWE.  Oh,  I  don't  want  any  driving.  I'm 
bad  enough  as  it  is,  but  with  your  love,  I  would  have 
tried  to  be  as  good  as  you  (Letty  looks  distressed} — or  I 
would  have  made  you  as  bad  as  I  am.  However, 
that's  all  past  now. 


38  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS.  ACT  M» 

LETTY.  Yes,  all  past  (crossing),  I  must  keep  my 
promise — I  must —  (Exit  on  to  platform} 

FANSHAWE.  Good  !  if  you  want  a  woman  to  love 
you,  tell  her  you're  an  infernal  scoundrel,  and  threaten 
to  go  to  the  devil  for  her  sake.  I'm  damned  if  I 
don't  really  begin  to  love  the  little  witch. 

Enter  a  PORTER — crosses  stage. 

(To  PORTER).  What  time  does  the  train  start  for 
Steepleford  ? 

PORTER.  Seven  fifty-five,  sir,  but  she'll  be  a  little 
bit  late  to-night.  The  seven  forty  up-express  ain't  in 
yet,  and  the  branch  can't  start  till  after  she's  gone. 

(Lifts  box  to  shoulder.} 
Are  you  going  to  Steepleford,  sir? 

FANSHAWE.     Yes. 

PORTER.     Second  train   on    the    other    side,   sir. 

Don't   get   into   the  first,    or  you'll  get  took  up  to 

London  by  mistake.  (Exit  to  platform  with  box} 

(FANSHAWE  suddenly  struck  with  man's  last 

words} 

FANSHAWE.  Get  taken  up  to  London  by  mistake  ! 
By  Jove  !  The  devil's  own  luck  !  I'll  do  it ! 

(To  LEESON  who  enters} 

Leeson,  you're  just  in  time.  Get  me  two  first-class 
tickets  for  Steepleford ;  bring  them  over  to  the  other 
side,  you'll  find  me  with  that  lady.  The  first  train 
that  comes  up  is  the  London  express ;  put  us  into  it 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  39 

by  mistake ;  bundle  us  in,  and  take  care  we  don't  find 
out  we're  in  the  wrong  train,  you  understand. 

(Looks  at  LEESON.) 

LEESON.  Perfectly,  sir.  You're  going  to  Steeple- 
ford,  and  in  the  hurry  you  get  into  the  London  train 
by  mistake.  (Crossing  to  booking-office?) 

FANSHAWE.  Good — and  Leeson,  there's  twenty 
pounds  for  you  if  you  don't  bungle  it. 

LEESON  (touching  hat).     Thank  you,  sir. 

FANSHAWE.  When  we  get  up  to  London  and  I 
find  out  you've  put  us  in  the  wrong  train,  I  shall 
bully  you  like  a  pickpocket. 

LEESON.  Of  course  you  will,  sir,  for  my  careless- 
ness. .  (Going.) 

FANSHAWE.  And,  Leeson — when  we  get  to  the 
hotel — that  lady  is  my  wife. 

LEESON.     All  right,  sir. 

(Exit  into  booking-office.) 

FANSHAWE.  She's  mine !  Once  get  her  up  to 
London,  she  can't  come  back.  Yes,  my  little  bird, 
you're  in  the  trap.  (Exit  on  to  platform.) 

LOT  enters  from  booking-office  and  sees  him. 

LOT.  Why,  there's  that  Captain  Fanshawe ! 
(  Goes  to  window?)  Why,  and  there's  Miss  Letty  too  ; 
they're  walking  up  and  down  the  platform  together  ! 
I  wonder  what  Mr.  Fletcher  would  say  to  Miss 
Letty's  being  seen  in  public  with  such  a  man  as  that 
Captain  Fanshawe. 


4° 


SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 


(Turns  towards  booking-office  as  FANSHAWE'S 
man  comes  hastily  out,  tickets  in  hand,  and 
knocks  against  him.) 

LEESON.     Out  of  the  way,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
LOT  (recognising  him} .    You're  Captain  Fanshawe's 
man*  ain't  you ? 

LEESON.     Yes — I  am ;  what  of  it  ? 
LOT.     Where's  your  master  taking  Miss  Fletcher? 
LEESON.     Why,  home  to   Steepleford,  of  course ; 
look,  here   are   the    tickets !     (Shows  tickets.)     Oh, 
Mr.  Fletcher  knows  all  about  it ! 

LOT.     Mr.  Fletcher  knows  all  about  it  ? 
LEESON.     Yes,  he  does — so  don't  you  worry  ! 

{Exit,  slamming  door  in  LOT'S  face.) 
LOT.     If  they're  going  to  Steepleford,  perhaps  I'd 
better  not  interfere,  and 

HOGGARD  enters  from  booking-office  without  umbrella. 

HOGGARD.  Well,  Lot,  is  that  our  train  just 
come  in? 

LOT.  No,  sir,  that's  the  London  express.  {Aside.) 
I'd  better  keep  him  from  seeing  them,  or  he'll  bully 
Mr.  Fletcher,  and  make  a  lot  of  mischief. 

(HOGGARD  is  going  to  platform  door.) 
Our  train  can't  start  till  after  the  express  is  gone,  sir. 
Why,  you  haven't  got  your  umbrella,  sir. 

HOGGARD.  I  must  have  left  it  in  the  booking- 
office.  Just  get  it  for  me,  will  you  ? 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  41 

LOT  (aside).  If  I  can  only  keep  him  from  seeing 
them.  (Exit  into  booking-office?) 

(HOGGARD  goes  up  to  window,  looks  out.) 
HOGGARD.     Why,  bless  my  soul !  that  surely  must 
be  Fletcher's  girl  getting  into  that  carriage. 

(Feeling  for  his  spectacles.} 

Re-enter  LOT  BURDEN  from  booking-office  with 
umbrella. 

LOT  (aside).  I'll  keep  him  on  this  side  till  the 
last  moment.  (Aloud.}  Here's  your  umbrella,  sir. 

(Gives  it.) 

HOGGARD.  I  thought  I  saw  that  girl  of  Fletcher's 
getting  into  a  first-class  carriage  just  now  with  a 
gentleman. 

LOT.  Oh  dear  no,  sir.  Miss  Fletcher  wouldn't 
be  travelling  first-class ;  it  couldn't  be  her. 

HOGGARD.  No,  I  suppose  not ;  I  must  have  been 
mistaken.  (Exit  upon  platform.} 

LOT  (rushes  up  to  window) .  They've  gone  !  Yes, 
they've  gone  by  the  express  !  She's  run  away  with 
that  rascal  to  London.  (Exit  upon  platform.) 

BELL — Change. 


42  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  a 

SCENE  III 
THE  MINISTER'S  STUDY  as  in  Act  I 

An  old  garden-hat  ^/LETTY'S  lying  on  a  chair. 
Discover  LYDIA  laying  supper~things.     Cloth  on  table, 

LYDIA.  Nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  not  a  sign  of 
the  Minister  and  Letty. 

Enter  JACOB  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  a  plucked, 
uncooked  chicken. 

Oh,  here  you  are  at  last.  Why,  what  have  you  got 
there  ? 

JACOB.  That's  a  chicken  and  a  bottle  of  port- 
wine. 

LYDIA.     Oh,  what's  that  for? 

JACOB.     Why,  for  supper  to  be  sure. 

LYDIA.  I  should  like  to  know  where  the  money's 
to  come  from  for  such  luxuries  ! 

JACOB.  Well,  it  is  very  extravagant,  I  know; 
but  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  me  this  once,  Lydia. 
You  see,  this  is  George's  first  visit  to  my  house  as 
my  future  son-in-law,  and  I  want  to  give  him  a 
warm  welcome  for  Letty's  sake.  That's  a  fine  bird, 
isn't  it  ? 

LYDIA  (examining  fowl,  probing  it  with  her  fingers). 


SCENE  in  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  43 

Ah  !  she  may  have  been  a  fine  bird  in  her  time,  but 
she's  like  me,  she's  seen  her  best  days. 

JACOB.  No,  she's  at  an  end  of  her  best  days,  but 
I  hope  your  best  days  are  to  come,  Lydia. 

LYDIA  {grunts} .  Ugh  !  {probing  the  fowl)  she'll 
take  a  lot  of  basting  to  make  her  tender. 

JACOB.  Then  she  must  have  a  lot  of  basting, 
Lydia.  Where's  Letty? 

LYDIA.     Didn't  she  come  in  with  you? 

JACOB.  No,  she  came  by  train  with  the  children. 
She  ought  to  have  been  home  an  hour  ago. 

LYDIA.     She  hasn't  come  then. 

JACOB.  I  daresay  she's  popped  in  somewhere. 
And  George  Kingsmill,  hasn't  he  come  yet? 

LYDIA.  No,  not  a  blessed  soul  has  been  near  the 
house  since  you  left  it. 

JACOB.  Ah,  I  suppose  George  hasn't  got  back 
from  London. 

LYDIA.     What's  he  gone  to  London  for  ? 

JACOB.  Why,  about  his  farm.  He  went  straight 
away  yesterday  morning  when  he  left  this  house.  So 
he  doesn't  know  that  Letty  has  promised  to  be  his 
wife.  How  pleased  he  will  be  when  he  gets  home 
and  learns  the  good  news  ! 

LYDIA.     Good  news  !     Ugh  ! 

{Grunts,  dissatisfied^) 

JACOB.  Yes,  I  call  it  good  news  when  two  young 
people  love  one  another  and  agree  to  take  each  other 
for  better  or  worse. 


44  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  H 

(  Going  up  to  window  and  drawing  the  blind 
a  little  aside  with  a  mere  shade  of  anxiety.} 
I  wonder  where  she  is  ! 

LYDIA.  Well,  I  suppose  she'll  get  married  to 
somebody  or  the  other  sooner  or  later,  and  if  we  are 
to  have  a  heap  of  sweethearting  and  courting  in  the 
house  we  may  as  well  get  it  over  and  done  with  it ! 

(At  table,} 

JACOB  (comes  down} .  Well,  I  don't  suppose  George 
will  wish  to  marry  her  for  a  year  or  two.  Not  that  I 
shall  stand  in  their  way.  Letty  is  twenty-one,  and 
she  must  do  as  she  pleases.  I  only  want  to  see  her 
happy,  and  there's  a  deal  too  much  prudence  about 
marriage  nowadays.  Young  folks  are  afraid  to  marry 
because  they  can't  keep  a  big  house  and  a  lot  of 
servants,  and  so  they  wait  till  all  their  best  days  are 
gone  ;  but  I  say  to  young  people,  "  Don't  wait  till 
the  sun  is  going  down ;  marry  each  other  while  you're 
young,  and  enjoy  the  morning  of  life  together  and 
toil  side  by  side."  That's  what  I  say. 

LYDIA.  Ugh  !  (Snatching  up  fowl.}  I  suppose 
you'll  want  some  bread-sauce  with  this  animal. 

JACOB.     Yes,    Lydia,    plenty  of  bread- sauce,   and 

make  haste,  because  Letty  and  George  will  soon  be 

here.       ( Going  up  to  window — sees  LETTY'S  hat  lying 

on  the  chair,  picks  it  up,  looks  at  it  fondly.} 

The  untidy  little  puss  ! 

LYDIA.  Yes,  she's  always  leaving  her  things  in 
your  study.  Give  it  to  me — I'll  hang  it  up. 


SCENE  in  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  45 

JACOB.  No — let  it  be — I  like  to  have  it  in  the 
room —  (Puts  it  down  on  chair.) 

and  Lydia 

LYDIA.     Well ! 

JACOB.  One  fowl  isn't  much  between  four  hungry 
people.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  very  extravagant 
if  we  were  to  have  one  of  those  nice  custard-puddings 
of  yours, — just  for  this  once,  Lydia,  because  you  know 
this  is  a  very  special  occasion,  and  it  will  only  happen 
to  me  once  in  my  life. 

LYDIA.  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  humour  you,  but 
it  will  mean  short  commons  for  the  next  week. 

JACOB.  Never  mind — we  must  have  a  little  feast 
to-night.  I  am  so  glad  my  Letty  is  going  to  marry 
the  very  man  I  should  have  chosen  for  her  out  of  all 
the  world.  Ah  !  how  happy  it  would  have  made  her 
mother,  if  she  could  have  lived  till  now. 

LYDIA.  Ugh  !  I  suppose  you'll  want  this  creature 
stuffed.  (Probing  fowl. ) 

JACOB.  Yes,  Lydia,  plenty  of  stuffing  and  plenty 
of  good  gravy ;  and,  Lydia,  gently  with  that  poor  bird 
— show  a  little  respect  to  old  age. 

LYDIA.     Ugh  !     Well,  I'll  make  the  best  of  her, 

but  don't  you  go  buying  poultry  again,  you  leave  that 

to  me.     (JACOB  goes  to  cupboard,  takes  out  corkscrew 

and 'wine-glasses, puts  wine-glasses  on  table, 

draws  cork  of  bottle.     LYDIA  goes  to  door.) 

She  ain't  no  chicken,  she  ain't. 

(Exit.) 


46  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

(JACOB  alone,  goes  to  back  table  and  takes  off  a 
vase  of  flowers,  sets  it  in  centre  of  supper- 
table  ;  does  all  this  with  a  pleased  air  of 
proprietorship,  rubs  his  hands,  looks  at 
table  pleased?) 

JACOB.  Let  me  see,  the  last  time  we  had  a  bottle 
of  wine — when  was  the  last  time  we  had  a  bottle  of 
wine?  Oh,  I  remember,  it  was  when  Mr.  Prabble 
sent  me  one  for  christening  his  twins.  That  was  two 
years  ago  last  February. 

{Taking  up  a  wine-glass  to  re-arrange  table?) 

LOT  enters  hurriedly  by  a  side  door. 

LOT.     Mr.  Fletcher  ! 

JACOB.     Well,  Lot,  what  is  it  ? 

LOT.     Miss  Letty,  sir — do  you  know  where  she  is? 

JACOB.  I  left  her  to  come  home  with  the  others 
from  the  ferry — why — what's  the  matter?  Has — 
has 

LOT.  Oh  sir,  it  will  break  your  heart,  and  I  wish 
there  was  somebody  else  to  tell  you. 

JACOB.  Why  !  what  do  you  mean?  What's  hap- 
pened to  her  ?  Tell  me  quick,  where  is  she  ? 

LOT  (after  a  pause,  very  delicately} .  She's  run  away 
to  London  with  that  rascal  Captain  Fanshawe. 

(JACOB  drops  the  glass  from  his  hand,  and 
stands  speechless  for  some  moments.} 

JACOB.     No — no — no —     How  do  you  know  ? 

LOT.     I  happened  to  be  at  the  junction,  sir,  and 


SCENE  in  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  47 

I  saw  them  on  the  other  side.  The  London  express 
came  up,  and  they  went  away  by  it. 

JACOB.  You  saw  them  go !  You  saw  a  man 
robbing  me  of  my  daughter,  and  you  didn't  cry, 
"Stop  thief!" 

LOT.  I  was  on  the  wrong  side,  sir,  and  the  train 
had  started  before  I  could  stop  them. 

JACOB.  You're  sure  there's  no  mistake?  It  was 
Letty  you  saw? 

LOT.     Oh  sir,  there's  no  mistake. 

JACOB  (remembering).  Yes — yes — yes.  Why  he 
was  making  love  to  her  here  yesterday  morning,  here 
in  my  own  house,  and  she  did  not  repulse  him. 
{Starting  up  violently?)  The  next  train  for  London — 
when  does  it  start? 

LOT.     There's  no  train  till  the  morning,  sir. 

JACOB.  Horses !  I  must  get  horses,  and  drive 
up  to  London  after  them  ! 

LOT.  Oh  sir,  you  wouldn't  reach  London  till  late 
to-morrow  morning. 

JACOB.  The  telegraph — I'll  telegraph  and  have 
them  stopped  ! 

LOT.     The  office  is  closed,  sir. 

JACOB.  You  should  have  stopped  her !  You 
should  have  dragged  her  away  from  him  !  Oh,  Lot, 
what  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do? 

LOT.     You  can  do  nothing  till  the  morning,  sir. 

JACOB.  Nothing  till  the  morning?  I  must!  I 
must  reach  her  to-night !  I  will  !  I  will ! 


48  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 

(  Goes  mechanically  and  takes  his  hat  and  coat 

of  peg-} 
I  tell  you  I  must  reach  her  to-night,  to-night — to-night, 

Lot,  to-night !     Oh  ! 

(Throws  coat  in  window,  sits  at  table.) 
Lot,  her  good   name   is  gone.     I   shall   never   hold 
up  my  head  again. 

LOT.  Don't  say  that,  sir.  We  may  perhaps  keep 
it  secret  till  you  can  find  Miss  Letty  and  bring  her 
back ;  let's  hope  for  the  best.  Oh  sir,  have  patience, 
nobody  knows  of  it. 

JACOB.  Nobody  knows  of  it  to-night,  but  to-morrow 
all  the  town  will  know  that  my  Letty,  my  girl  is — oh, 
if  I  could  but  reach  her  for  a  moment !  If  I  could 
but  whisper  one  word  in  her  ear !  I  might  yet  save 
her  !  And  I  stay  here,  and  can  do  nothing  ! 

(Bursts  into  tears,  continues  sobbing  for  a  few 

moments.     LOT  moves  towards  him  with  a 

sympathetic  gesture.     Taking  LOT'S  hand.) 

Thank  you,  Lot,  for  what  you  have  done.     You  won't 

mention  this  to  anybody? 

LOT.  Not  to  a  living  soul,  sir.  I'll  have  my 
tongue  out  before  I  breathe  a  syllable  of  it. 

JACOB  (shakes  hand).  Thank  you,  Lot.  Don't 
wait.  I  can  bear  it  best  alone.  I'll  go  up  to  London 
to-morrow  morning,  and  find  her,  and  bring  her  back 
again — yes,  to-morrow.  Good-night,  Lot. 

LOT.  Good-night,  sir.  I  wish  I  could  help  you 
bear  it,  sir. 


SCENE  in  SAINTS   AND    SINNERS  40 

JACOB.  Nobody  can  do  that — nobody  knows  how 
much  I  loved  her.  (Exit  LOT.) 

(JACOB  alone,  stares  around  the  room.) 
JACOB.     Gone  !     Gone  !     How  shall  I  answer  to 
her  mother  for  her  ?     Gone!     (Rises.) 

(Takes  up  LETTY'S  old  garden-hat,  puts  it 
down,  happens  to  see  picture  of  LETTY'S 
aunt,  goes  to  it,  turns  its  face  to  the  wall, 
looks  helplessly  round  the  room — old, 
haggard,  tearless.} 
Gone !  Gone !  Gone !  (Sits.) 

GEORGE  (calls  outside) .  Mr.  Fletcher !  Mr 
Fletcher  !  where  are  you  ? 

Enters  with  a  quick,  joyous,  eager  step. 

GEORGE.  Well,  here  I  am  you  see  !  I  got  your 
letter,  and  I  came  on  at  once.  I  couldn't  wait  a 
moment !  I've  been  waiting  all  these  years  for  one 
word  of  love  from  her  !  Where  is  she  ?  Why,  what's 
the  matter  ?  Where  is  Letty  ?  Does  she  expect  me  ? 
Tell  her  I'm  here!  What  has  happened?  You 
didn't  expect  me — you're  upset.  Where  is  she  ?  Why 
don't  you  speak? 

JACOB.  George,  she  is — I  cannot  tell  you —  She 
is 

GEORGE.  You  have  bad  news.  What  is  it? 
Tell  me  ;  I  can  bear  it.  Ah  !  She  is  dead  ! 

JACOB.     Would  God  she  were.     (Rises.) 


5° 


SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  n 


GEORGE.     Worse  than  death  !     There   is  but  one 
thing  worse  than  death.     Is  it  that! 
JACOB.     You  have  said  it. 

(GEORGE  stands  still  for  some  moments,  dazed, 
with  one  hand  to  his  head,  the  other  resting 
on  back  of  chair  ;  with  a  strong  movement 
he  swings  chair  behind  him,  comes  down, 
stands  with  his  hands  clenching  tablecloth; 
then  in  a  cold  hoarse  voice)  — 
GEORGE.     Who  is  he?     His  name? 
JACOB.     It  is  too  late.     You  cannot  save  her. 
GEORGE.     His  name  ?     I  will  know  it.     His  name, 
I  say ! 

JACOB.     Why,  what  will  you  do? 
GEORGE.     I  will  kill  him  !     As  there  is  a  heaven 
above  us,  I  will  kill  him  ! 

CURTAIN. 
(A  month  elapses  between  Acts  II.  and  III.) 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 
SITTING-ROOM  AT  THE  MINISTER'S.     FRONT  SCENE. 

Discover  LYDIA  showing  in  HOGGARD  and  PRABBLE. 

PRABBLE  is  a  little  provincial  grocer,  very  small, 

but  very  self-important. 

LYDIA.  The  Minister's  in  his  study.  I'll  tell  him 
you're  here. 

PRABBLE.     Miss  Fletcher's  not  come  home  yet? 

LYDIA.     No,  she  hasn't. 

HOGGARD.     Not  come  home  !     How's  that  ? 

LYDIA.     Because  she's  stayed  away.          (Exit.) 

HOGGARD.  Prabble,  I  have  my  suspicions  about 
this  girl's  visit  to  London.  (Sits.) 

PRABBLE.  Ah  !  London  is  a  sink  of  iniquity.  I 
lived  there  three  months  when  I  was  a  young  man. 

HOGGARD.  I  think  as  deacons  of  the  chapel  we 
ought  to  get  from  Fletcher  some  explanation  of  his 
daughter's  absence. 


52  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 

PRABBLE.  Yes,  and  another  thing,  Mr.  Hoggard. 
I  find  the  members  of  the  congregation  are  going  to 
the  Stores,  and  I've  asked  Mr.  Fletcher  more  than 
once  to  preach  against  them.  I'm  a  grocer,  and  I've 
got  eleven  children,  and  how  can  I  pay  my  rates  and 
taxes  and  bring  up  my  family  if  the  Stores  are  allowed 
to  undersell  me,  eh?  I  ask  you  that  as  a  member 
of  the  great  tax-paying  middle  classes. 

HOGGARD.  Very  true,  Prabble.  The  middle 
classes  are  the  great  backbone  of  this  country.  It's 
such  men  as  you  and  I,  Prabble,  that  are  the  source 
of  England's  greatness.  We  have  made  England 
what  she  is  to-day.  Oh,  here  is  Fletcher. 

Enter  JACOB,  looking  broken  and  older  than  in  last  act. 
LYDIA  follows  him  in  and  busies  herself  about  the 
room. 

JACOB.     Good-morning,  Mr.  Hoggard. 

(Crosses  to  PRABBLE.) 
Good-morning,  Mr.  Prabble. 

HOGGARD.  We've  called  to  fix  the  evening  for 
the  missionary  meeting  next  month. 

JACOB.  Any  evening  will  suit  me.  (Dreamy,  list- 
less, uninterested.) 

HOGGARD.    Then  we'll  say  Tuesday  the  i  yth. 

(Taking  out  pocket-book,    making    memor- 
andum^) 

That's  settled.     So  your  daughter  has  not  returned 
yet? 


SCENE  I  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  53 

JACOB  (a  little  confused  and  troubled) .  No — no — 
I  have  not  pressed  her  to  come  back,  but  she'll  be 
home  now  in  a  day  or  two.  Yes,  she's  sure  to  come 
home  in  a  few  days. 

HOGGARD.     She  seems  to  like  living  in  London. 

LYDIA.     Yes,  and  do  you  know  why  ? 

HOGGARD.     No. 

LYDIA.  Because  in  London  people  mind  their 
own  business,  and  down  here  they're  always  poking 
their  noses  into  their  neighbour's. 

HOGGARD.     Oh ! 

PRABBLE.  I  was  about  to  remark,  Mr.  Fletcher, 
that  you  have  not  yet  denounced  the  Stores  from  the 
pulpit. 

JACOB.  Well,  I  don't  see  my  way  to  make  a 
pulpit-question  of  it,  Mr.  Prabble.  Of  course  I 
always  get  my  groceries  from  you,  but  I  don't  think 
I  ought  to  interfere  with  the  way  my  congregation 
spend  their  money. 

PRABBLE.  If  I  support  your  chapel,  I  expect  you  to 
get  the  congregation  to  support  my  shop.  That's  only 
fair.  I've  got  to  live,  haven't  I  ?  Eh,  Mr.  Hoggard  ? 

HOGGARD.  You're  quite  right,  Prabble?  and  that 
reminds  me,  Fletcher  (rises),  I  have  to  complain  about 
Sunday  morning's  sermon. 

JACOB.     What  was  the  matter  with  it  ? 

HOGGARD.  Matter?  Why,  I  timed  it — it  was 
barely  thirty  minutes. 

PRABBLE.     No.     Give  me   a  good   old-fashioned 


54  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 

sermon,  one  that  lasts  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  That 
was  always  the  length  of  sermons  when  I  was  a  boy. 
We  don't  get  such  sermons  nowadays. 

HOGGARD.  Yes,  to  be  sure.  If  I  pay  twenty 
pounds  a  year  for  my  religion,  I'm  not  going  to  be 
done  out  of  it. 

JACOB  (meekly}.  I'm  very  sorry,  gentlemen.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  not  been  very  well  the  last 
week ;  but  you  shall  have  a  longer  one  next  Sunday. 

LYDIA  (bursting  in) .  How  do  you  expect  to  get 
good  sermons  when  you  come  and  worry  the  minister 
like  this  ?  Can't  you  see  you're  plaguing  all  the  life 
and  spirit  out  of  him  ? 

JACOB  (remonstratiiigly) .     Lydia  !  Lydia  !     Hush! 

LYDIA.  I  shan't  hush.  There,  you  go  back  to 
your  study  and  leave  them 

PRABBLE.  We're  just  going.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Fletcher.  Come  on,  Mr.  Hoggard.  (Exit.) 

HOGGARD  (as  he  is  going,  aside  to  JACOB).  You 
haven't  done  any  more  in  Mrs.  Bristow's  affairs? 

JACOB.  I  have  a  valuer  coming  down  from  Lon- 
don next  week. 

HOGGARD.  Oh,  very  well.  Good-morning.  By 
the  way,  I  hope  you  have  taken  means  to  ascertain 
the  character  of  the  people  your  daughter  is  staying 
with.  Who  are  these  friends  of  yours  in  London? 
Eh? 

JACOB  (with  great  dignity) .  That  is  my  business, 
sir.  You  pay  me  for  my  sermons  and  you  have  a 


SCENE  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  55 

right  to  call  them  in  question ;  but  with  regard  to  my 
daughter,  I  will  answer  for  her  where  I  am  account- 
able. Good-morning. 

(Turns  away  from  him  and  goes  to  window?) 

HOGGARD  (aside,  looking  at  him}.  That  girl's  gone 
away  for  no  good.  There's  something  wrong,  and 
I'll  ferret  it  out  before  I'm  much  older.  (Exit.) 

JACOB  (to  LYDIA).  You  see,  it's  no  good,  Lydia. 
It's  safe  to  come  out.  They'll  find  that  I  don't  know 
where  she  is,  and  then  they'll  guess  the  truth.  You're 
quite  sure  there  was  no  letter  this  morning. 

LYDIA.     Quite.     I  saw  the  postman  go  by. 

JACOB.     The  second  post  will  soon  be  here. 
(  Going  up  to  window — anxiously  looking  out.) 

LYDIA.  There,  come  away  from  that  window.  I 
can't  bear  to  see  you  standing  there  day  after  day 
waiting  for  a  letter  that  never  comes. 

JACOB.  The  postman  is  late  again,  he  ought  to 
have  been  here  before  this.  It's  four  weeks  to-day 
since  she  left  home.  A  whole  month,  and  not  a  line 
when  she  knows  my  heart  is  breaking  for  her. 

LYDIA.  I  can't  understand  her  not  writing.  I 
always  knew  she  was  giddy  and  thoughtless,  but  I 
didn't  think  she  was  heartless  and  wicked. 

JACOB.  She  isn't !  How  dare  you  say  so  ?  No ! 
there's  some  mistake.  She'll  write  to-day,  or  perhaps 
she'll  come  home.  Yes,  she  can't  have  the  heart  to 
stay  away  much  longer.  Lydia,  was  I  very  unkind 
to  her  when  she  was  at  home  ? 


56  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  ACT  in 

LYDIA.  Unkind !  There  never  was  a  kinder 
father  in  the  world. 

JACOB.  Oh  no,  I  must  have  been  very  hard  and 
cruel  to  her,  or  she  would  have  written  to  me  !  Per- 
haps if  I  stopped  in  London  another  day  I  might  have 
found  her. 

{Looking  out  of  window?) 

Ah,  there's  the  postman  !  He's  coming  here  !  Yes, 
there's  a  letter  at  last !  You  go,  Lydia — I  dare  not, 
for  fear.  {Exit  LYDIA.) 

Oh,  it  must  be  from  her — it  must ! 

Re-enter  LYDIA  with  letter. 

Well,  well,  is  it  from  her  ?  Yes,  it  is — it  is  !  Give 
it  to  me.  {Snatching  letter  from  LYDIA.)  What  did 
I  tell  you?  I  knew  she  would  write  ! 

{Eagerly  opens  letter,  throws  envelope  on  floor, 

reading.} 

!<  TORQUAY,  Monday. — Father,  I  am  ashamed  to  write 
lo  you,  and  yet  I  must.  What  can  you  think  of  me  ? 
Oh,  I  can  never  dare  to  ask  your  forgiveness  !  I  do 
not  deserve  it !  I  should  have  written  before,  but  I 
waited  till  I  could  tell  you  that  I  was  Captain  Fan- 
shawe's  wife 

LYDIA.     Go  on,  sir  !     Is  she  his  wife  ? 

JACOB  {reading).  — "but  there  has  been  some 
delay  in  procuring  the  marriage  -  licence.  However, 
it  will  be  here  at  latest  in  a  day  or  two 

LYDIA.     Then  the  villain  hasn't  married  her? 


SCENE  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  57 

JACOB  (reading).  — "and  I  will  write  again  the 
moment  I  am  married.  You  are  not  to  grieve  over 
me ;  you  are  to  forget  me,  and  think  of  me  as  dead." 
(Dropping  his  hands  with  the  letter?)  Think  of  her 
as  dead  !  (Sobbing,  raising  the  letter  to  read  again.) 
— "  Do  not  try  to  come  to  me — it  would  be  useless, 
— I  shall  never  dare  to  see  you  again.  Oh  my 
father,  when  I  think  how  I  have  deceived  you  and 
brought  shame  upon  you  I  am  ready  to  go  mad  !  I 
can  write  no  more. — Your  heart-broken  LETTY." 
(Sobbing.}  Think  of  her  as  dead  !  Not  try  to  come 
to  her  !  Ah,  but  I  will  though,  and  bring  her  home  ! 
(Looking  again  at  letter?)  Torquay;  she  doesn't 
give  her  address  in  Torquay,  but  I  shall  be  sure  to 
find  her. 

Enter  GEORGE  KINGSMILL. 

My  hat  and  coat,  Lydia  !  I'll  start  at  once.  I  shall 
be  sure  to  find  her.  (Exit  LYDIA.) 

GEORGE.  You've  heard  from  her?  You  know 
where  she  is? 

JACOB.     Yes,  I  am  going  to  fetch  her. 

GEORGE.    He's  left  her  ;  he's  thrown  her  off? 

JACOB.     No. 

GEORGE.  She's  with  him  still?  I'll  go  with  you 
and  settle  my  account  with  him. 

JACOB.     What  do  you  mean? 

GEORGE.     I  shall  keep  my  word. 

JACOB.     No,  George,  vengeance   is   not  ours.      I 


58  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  ill 

have  been  wronged  more  than  you.  My  home  is 
broken  and  all  the  pride  and  joy  of  my  life  taken 
from  me,  but  I  will  leave  my  vengeance  to  Whom 
vengeance  belongs. 

GEORGE.  Ay,  and  I'll  make  sure  of  mine ! 
Where  is  he? 

JACOB.  No,  I  want  no  help  from  you.  I  only 
want  my  child  back  to  my  home  and  heart. 

GEORGE.     Where  is  he? 

JACOB.  You  have  no  right  to  know  while  there  is 
murder  in  your  heart. 

GEORGE.  It's  not  murder — it's  justice.  Where 
is  he? 

Enter  LYDIA  with  hat  and  coat. 

JACOB.  I  will  not  tell  you.  Lydia,  you'll  get  her 
room  ready  for  her.  Have  everything  just  as  it  used 
to  be,  and  some  flowers  on  the  table ;  she's  fond  of 
flowers.  I  shall  bring  her  home  to-morrow.  Yes, 
my  poor  wanderer,  I  shall  bring  her  home  to-morrow. 

(Exit.) 

LYDIA  (following  him).  Good-bye,  sir;  give  my 
love  to  her  and  tell  her  she  shall  be  made  welcome 
home  again.  (Exit,  following  JACOB.) 

GEORGE  (left  alone,  looks  round}.  Four  weeks 
since  she  left  home — a  whole  month ;  and  she  is 
still  in  his  arms.  Oh  my  enemy,  I  shall  find  you 

yet !     Let  me  but  meet  him  face  to  face 

(His  eye  falls  on  the  envelope  of  LETTY'S  letter 
on  floor.     He  picks  it  up .) 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  59 

Her  writing  !     The  Torquay  postmark  !     That's  near 
enough  !     I  shall  find  him  !  (£xit.) 

Scene  draws  up  and  discovers  Scene  II, 


SCENE  II 

DRAWING-ROOM  IN  FANSHAWE'S  VILLA  AT  TORQUAY. 
Doors  right  and  left,  window  with  balcony ',  showing 
the  sea. 

Discover  FANSHAWE  leaning  against  conservatory,  with 
cigarettes  LEESON  down  right.  Five  letters  on 
salver  on  small  table  extreme  right. 

LEESON.     I've  got  everything  packed,  sir. 

FANSHAWE.  All  right.  We  leave  by  the  early 
train.  We  sail  on  Friday. 

LEESON  {goes).  Yes,  sir.  Beg  pardon,  sir,  Miss 
— your  lady,  I  mean — does  she  go  to  India  with  us? 

FANSHAWE  (sharply} .     Yes,  of  course. 

LEESON.  Because  this  afternoon  your  lady  asked 
me  why  I  was  packing  so  many  trunks  for  you. 

FANSHAWE.  Blockhead !  you  told  her  I  was 
ordered  to  join  my  regiment  in  India? 

LEESON.     No,  sir,  I — hem — passed  it  off,  sir. 

(Exit.) 

FANSHAWE.  Was  ever  such  cursed  luck !  Pro- 
vidence and  the  War  Office  must  have  planned  this 
campaign  to  spite  me  !  She  shall  go  to  India  with 


60  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  ACT  in 

me ;  I  won't  leave  her  now.  (Si/s  on  sofa.)  To 
think  that  I  have  fallen  into  my  own  trap  and  really 
grown  to  love  the  girl  !  For  I  do  love  her,  and  she's 
good  and  true  too — that  is,  compared  with  me.  There 
is  something  in  goodness  after  all,  or  why  should  I 
feel  a  half  longing  to  be  good  when  I  am  with  her? 
Why  should  I  feel  sorry  that  I  have  ruined  her  poor 
little  life?  (Rises.)  Hang  it!  I'm  getting  maudlin 
moral.  My  digestion  must  be  out  of  order. 

(Goes  to  fireplace,  throws  cigarette  in  fire.) 
How  will  she  take  this  Indian  business?  I  must 
break  it  to  her  to-night.  The  marriage-licence  too — 
that  lie's  getting  threadbare.  I  shall  have  to  invent 
a  new  one,  or — I've  a  good  mind  to  tell  her  the 
truth.  It's  a  beastly  nuisance  to  have  to  keep  on 
telling  lies.  (Leaning  arms  on  mantelpiece.) 

Enter  LETTY  from  her  room  in  evening-dress. 

LETTY  (eagerly  going  to  letters  on  table).  Ah!  The 
post !  The  marriage-licence. 

FANSHAWE.     Not  come. 

LETTY.  Not  come !  Not  come !  But  why  do 
they  not  send  it?  Oh,  if  you  loved  me  as  you  say 
you  do,  you  would  not  rest  one  moment  till  you  had 
put  me  out  of  this  horrible  suspense. 

FANSHAWE.     Can  you  not  trust  me  ? 

LETTY.  Have  I  not  trusted  you?  How  could  I 
help  trusting  you?  You  gave  me  no  choice. 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  61 

FANSHAWE.     And  have  I  not  made  you  happy? 

(Crosses  to  her.) 

LETTY.  So  happy  that  I  wish  I  were  dead.  Oh, 
it  is  all  like  a  dream  !  I  am  afraid  to  think — nothing 
seems  real  to  me ;  all  my  life  at  home,  my  girlhood 
when  I  was  good  and  innocent — oh,  it  is  as  far  away 
as  if  I  had  lived  it  in  another  life,  hundreds  of  years 
ago  !  Eustace,  Eustace,  if  you  do  not  mean  to  make 
me  your  wife,  in  mercy  say  so,  and  kill  me  ! 

FANSHAWE.  Kill  you !  (Sits  on  table.)  Yes, 
sweet,  I  think  I  shall  kill  you  when  you  tell  me  that 
you  do  not  love  me. 

LETTY.  %I  do  not  know  whether  I  love  or 
hate  you.  I  only  know  I  fear  you,  and  must  obey 
you. 

FANSHAWE.  Good  girl !  Then  you'll  do  as  I 
wish  you. 

LETTY.    What  do  you  mean? 

FANSHAWE.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before,  but 
I  was  afraid  of  losing  you.  I  am  ordered  to  join  my 
regiment  in  India.  I  sail  on  Friday. 

LETTY.     But — but  what  will  become  of  me  ? 

FANSHAWE.     I  mean  to  take  you  with  me. 

LETTY  (desperately) .  Yes — yes — but  as  your  wife, 
as  your  wife. 

FANSHAWE.    Yes,  of  course. 

(Leaning  over  her,  sitting  on  table?) 

LETTY.  You  will  marry  me  before  we  start? 
Swear  it  again  and  again,  so  that  if  you  break  your 


62  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 

word  I  may  kill  myself,  and  lay  ten  thousand  broken 
oaths  against  your  soul ! 

FANSHAWE.     Letty,  you  are  my  wife  already. 

LETTY.  No  !  (Rises.)  I  am  the  poor  unhappy 
fool  who  believed  you  when  you  promised  to  make 
her  your  wife.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  !  What  shall  I 
do  !  My  father  !  My  father  ! 

(Sobbing,  sits  in  front  of  fireplace.) 

FANSHAWE.  Come,  dry  up  your  tears.  (Rises, 
goes  up.)  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  wretched.  ( Comes 
to  her.)  Put  on  your  hat  and  come  down  to  the 
beach,  there's  a  good  girl !  (Goes  to  table  for  hat.) 
You'll  find  me  outside.  (Lights  cigar.) 
(Aside.)  I  shall  have  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

(Exit  at  balcony.     Clock  on  shelf  strikes  half 
hour.) 

LETTY.  .  Half-past  eight !  They  are  having  supper 
at  home.  Lydia  has  just  knocked  at  the  study-door, 
and  father  has  said  "  Coming,  Lydia."  I  can  see  him 
at  his  bookshelves  with  his  old  study-coat,  and  his 
dear  face  with  its  kind  gentle  smile.  Oh  my  father  ! 
my  father !  (Rises.)  You  were  always  so  good  to 
me,  and  how  have  I  repaid  you?  What  can  you 
think  of  me  ?  Oh  if  I  could  but  forget  I  ever  had  a 
home.  If  I  could  but  get  rid  of  this  weight  at  my 
heart !  If  I  could  but  stop  out  this  one  thought !  If 
I  could  but  sleep  and  wake  again  like  a  little  child  ! 
I  will  forget !  I  will  forget !  I  will  forget ! 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  63 

Enter  LEESON. 
LEESON  (holding  open  door).    Will  you  come  in? 

Enter  RADDLES,  a  dissipated  middle-aged  man,  very 
shabby,  and  slightly  intoxicated. 

I'll  find  Captain  Fanshawe — he  was  here  a  few  minutes 
ago.  (RADDLES  comes  down.) 

LETTY.     What  is  it,  Leeson  ? 

LEESON.     A  party  to  see  Captain  Fanshawe. 

LETTY.     Your  master  has  gone  out  on  the  beach. 

LEESON.     What  name  shall  I  say  ? 

RADDLES.  "  Raddles — Jack  Raddles,  his  old  friend 
Jack. 

•  (LEESON  exit  upon  balcony  after  FANSHAWE.) 
Good  evening,  miss,  or  ma'am,  I  suppose  I  should  say. 
Excuse  my  intruding,  but  the  Captain  and  me  are 
very  old  friends — relatives  I  should  say. 

LETTY.     Indeed ! 

RADDLES.  Yes,  you  wouldn't  think  it  now,  would 
you?  A  gentleman  like  the  Captain,  and  a  seedy 
sort  of  a  chap  like  me,  but  so  it  is,  and  was  uncommon 
chummy  at  one  period  of  our  lives — existence,  I 
should  say — when  the  Captain  was  at  Oxford.  Yes, 
I'm  Captain  Eustace  Fanshawe's  brother-in-law,  I  am. 

LETTY.     His  brother-in-law? 

RADDLES.  Yes ;  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it. 
I  ain't  ashamed  of  the  Captain,  if  the  Captain's  ashamed 
of  me. 


64  SAINTS   AND    SINNERS  ACT  in 

LETTV.  His  brother-in-law  !  You  married  Captain 
Fanshawe's  sister? 

RADDLES.  Oh  no !  The  Captain  married  my 
sister. 

LETTY  (suddenly,  fiercely}.  But  she's  dead  !  She's 
dead  !  She's  not  alive  now? 

(  Comes  a  step  towards  him.) 

FANSHAWE  enters,  and  remains  by  conservatory. 

RADDLES.  Oh  yes  she  is,  or  rather  she  was  when 
I  left  her  this  morning. 

(FANSHAWE  comes  down  in  a  threatening 
manner.  RADDLES  seeing  him  retreats  a 
step  up  stage.) 

LETTY  (to  FANSHAWE).     You  hear  this  man.     He 
says  his  sister  is  your  wife.     Is  it  true  ? 
FANSHAWE  (firmly).     Quite  true. 

(LETTY,  who  has  been  standing  with  her  arm 

raised,  lets  it  fall  helplessly  by  her  side.) 
LETTY.     You  villain  ! 

(Staggers   to  sofa.     FANSHAWE   takes  a  step 

up  stage  after  RADDLES.) 

FANSHAWE.  How  dare  you  show  your  face  in 
England,  and  in  my  house? 

RADDLES.  Well,  Captain,  the  fact  is,  Mabel  and 
me  have  been  hard  up — very  hard  up,  and  she 
thought  you  wouldn't  like  it  to  be  known  as  we  were 
in  pecuniary  distress. 


SCENE  n  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  65 

FANSHAWE.  You  want  money?  Haven't  you 
had  enough,  the  pair  of  you,  to  drink  yourselves  to 
death  before  this?  Where  are  you  staying? 

RADDLES.  At  the  "  Green  Man,"  Union  Street, 
next  door  to  the  Temperance  Hotel. 

FANSHAWE.  I'll  come  to  you  there  in  half  an 
hour.  Clear  out  of  this,  and  if  you  show  your  face 
in  my  house  again  I'll  have  you  horsewhipped. 

(  Opening  door.    Exit  RADDLES  quickly.    FAN- 
SHAWE turns  to  LETTY.) 

FANSHAWE.  Now  you  know  why  I  cannot  marry 
you.  .  (Comes  down.) 

LETTY.  Let  me  go !  Let  me  go  !  This  is  no 
place  for  me.  Oh  God,  I  have  no  name,  no  place 
upon  this  earth  ! 

FANSHAWE.  You  have  one  name,  one  place. 
Come  to  India  with  me  as  my  wife. 

LETTY.  Your  wife  !  I  deserve  your  taunts  !  Your 
wife  !  You  do  well  to  mock  me  with  that  name  now 
that  I  have  given  up  all  my  hopes  in  earth  and 
heaven  to  win  it  from  you — now  that  you  have  cheated 
me  out  of  it !  Your  wife  !  Have  you  not  humbled 
me  enough  ?  Let  me  go  !  You  and  I  are  strangers  ! 

FANSHAWE.     Where  will  you  go  ?    Home  ? 

LETTY.     Home ! 

FANSHAWE.    Where  else  can  you  go  ? 

LETTY.  You  know  I  cannot  go  home.  My 
father  cannot  take  me  back  again, — I  have  dis- 
honoured him ! 

F 


66  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 

FANSHAWE.  Nonsense  !  Think  how  pleased  they 
will  be  to  see  you  back  again,  and  what  a  fuss  they 
will  make  over  you.  Think  what  a  splendid  subject 
you'll  make  for  them  to  exercise  their  tongues  on 
first,  and  their  Christian  pity  afterwards. 

LETTY  (maddened) .  I  hate  their  pity  and  their  for- 
giveness !  I  will  have  none  of  it !  I  will  kill  myself ! 

FANSHAWE.  Kill  yourself!  When  you  can  come 
to  India  with  me  ! 

LETTY.     Oh,  I  will  hear  no  more  !     Let  me  go  ! 

(  Going  to  door.) 

FANSHAWE.  Where  will  you  go?  Listen  to  me. 
(Puts  her  on  sofa.)  I  have  wronged  and  deceived 
you,  but  I  love  you.  I  have  robbed  you  of  your 
good  name  and  wrecked  your  life,  but  I  love  you. 
I  have  not  given  you  the  name  of  wife — you  know 
now  that  I  cannot, — but,  by  God,  I  love  you  as  much 
as  ever  wife  was  loved.  Letty,  your  life  is  tied  to 
mine.  You  have  already  paid  the  price.  You  will 
not  be  mad  enough  to  leave  me  ?  What  hope,  what 
life  have  you  apart  from  me  ? 

LETTY.  You  can  remind  me  of  that  now  you 
have  destroyed  my  every  other  hope  in  life  ! 

FANSHAWE.  Yes,  and  I  would  do  it  again  to  win 
you.  I  love  you  with  a  cruel  love  that  will  not  be 
denied.  You  shall  not  escape  me.  I  will  not  give 
you  up ! 

LETTY.  Oh,  I  think  I  shall  go  mad !  I  think  I 
shall  go  mad  ! 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  67 

FANSHAWE  (comes  to  her).  Go  mad  !  What  for? 
You'll  be  happy  when  you've  left  England,  and  I'll 
soon  teach  you  to  care  as  little  what  people  say  about 
you  as  I  do.  Besides,  that  woman  may  die,  and 
then  I  will  marry  you 

LETTY.     Ah,  but  if  she  should  live 

FANSHAWE.  Let  her  live  !  And  you,  Letty,  dare 
to  live  for  me.  Dare  to  be  happy.  Our  world  is 
our  two  selves.  In  that  we  are  secure.  Choose — 
will  you  go  from  this  house  nameless  and  dishonoured, 
or  will  you  come  to  India  with  me? 

LETTY.  An,  you  have  me  in  your  power,  and  you 
know  it.  Very  well,  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me.  I  will 
dare  to  be  as  bad  as  you  wish  me.  Make  me  like 
yourself.  (Throws  herself  into  his  arms.) 

FANSHAWE  (clasping  her).  Swear  you  will  never 
leave  me  ! 

LETTY.  What  need  to  swear  that?  Where  can 
I  go? 

FANSHAWE.     Nothing  but  death  shall  part  us  ! 

LETTY.  Nothing  but  death  shall  part  us  !  And 
may  it  soon  come  to  me  ! 

FANSHAWE.  I  shall  soon  hear  a  different  tune 
from  those  dear  lips.  We  leave  by  the  early  train 
to-morrow. 

LETTY.     I  shall  be  ready. 

FANSHAWE.     I'm  going  to  get  rid  of  that  man. 

(Leaves  her,  picks  up  hat  from  table,  goes  to  door, 
holds  out  his  hands.    She  comes  to  him?) 


68  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  ACT  m 

My  wife  in  all  but  name.     (Kisses  her.}     I'm  sure  of 
you  now.     (Exit  at  balcony.} 

LETTY.  Yes,  you  are  sure  of  me.  You  are 
glad,  are  you  ?  So  am  I !  Oh,  I  have  passed  the 
boundaries,  stepped  over  the  eternal  landmarks ! 
Yes,  you  are  sure  of  me  !  And  I  shall  grow  to  be 
as  wicked  as  you  are  !  Yes,  as  wicked  as  you  are  ! 
Yes,  on,  on,  on,  on — wherever  you  drag  me,  I  will 
come  !  I  will  come  !  Don't  fear  !  I'll  be  just  what 
you  make  me ! 

Enter  LEESON. 

LEESON.  Ma'am,  your  father  is  at  the  door  and 
wishes  to  speak  to  you. 

LETTY.  My  father  !  No,  no,  no,  Leeson  !  Shut 
the  door.  I  will  not  see  him  !  I  am  not  here — say 
that  I  have  left — anything  to  keep  him  from  me  ! 
Stay,  Leeson,  does  he  look  ill,  grieved?  Is  he 
changed?  Does  he  seem  angry? 

LEESON.  No,  ma'am,  he  spoke  very  quietly,  and 
said  he  must  see  you. 

LETTY.  I  cannot  see  him,  Leeson.  I  will  not ! 
Tell  him  his  daughter  is  not  here — tell  him  he  has 
no  daughter;  she  died  when  she  forgot  she  had  a 
father  and  a  home. 

JACOB  enters. 
Ah  !     (Starts  away.}  (LEESON  exit.) 

JACOB.  Letty !  My  Letty !  My  poor  girl,  have 
I  found  you  ! 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  69 

LETTY.  Ah,  don't  touch  me  !  Don't  speak  to 
me  !  Do  you  know  what  I  am  ?  Leave  me ;  I'm 
not  fit  you  should  touch  me  ! 

JACOB.  Ah,  don't  say  that.  Letty  dear,  don't 
turn  away  from  me ;  it  is  I,  your  father,  come  to  take 
you  home  again. 

LETTY.  No — no  !  Go  away  !  I  have  disgraced 
you  !  I  am  your  daughter  no  longer  !  ( Turns,  looks 
at  him.)  And  you  are  so  changed.  Oh,  it  was  I 
who  struck  the  blow  !  I  did  it,  in  return  for  all  your 
kindness  and  love  for  me. 

JACOB.  Ah,  but  I  forgive  you.  (Embraces  her.) 
There!  (Putting  ^L^m's  head  on  his  shoulder.)  Lean 
your  head  upon  my  shoulder.  Don't  shrink  from 
me. 

LETTY.  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  you  should  speak  like 
this  !  Why  don't  you  hate  me  for  all  the  misery  I 
have  caused  you?  Why  don't  you  drive  me  from 
you  ?  Then  I  could  bear  it ;  but  oh,  your  kindness 
will  drive  me  mad  !  I'm  not  worth  caring  for.  Go 
away  and  forget  me.  (Turning  away  from  him.) 

JACOB.  Letty !  Letty !  Listen,  my  dear.  I 
have  come  to  take  you  from  this  place  and  make  you 
a  good  and  happy  girl  again. 

LETTY.  I  can  never  be  good  and  happy  again. 
I  must  be  wicked  and  miserable.  Yes,  I  must.  I 
have  chosen  my  path — I  must  go  on. 

JACOB.  Oh  my  child,  I  dare  not  guess  what  your 
future  will  be  if  you  will  not  listen  to  me  !  I  will  give 


7° 


SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 


you  no  peace  day  or  night  till  I  have  won  you  back. 
I  will  tear  you  from  this  man's  arms. 

LETTY.  He  loves  me.  He  has  sworn  to  make 
me  his  wife,  and  I  have  promised  to  be  faithful  to 
him.  I  am  bound  to  him.  Oh  father,  it  is  my  one 
chance  of  winning  back  my  good  name  !  What  hope, 
what  future  is  there  for  me  apart  from  him  ? 

JACOB.  What  hope,  what  future  is  there  for  you 
with  him?  Letty,  my  poor  child,  what  possesses 
you?  It  cannot  be  you  who  are  talking  like  this — 
the  little  girl  I  brought  up  at  my  side  and  watched 
over  day  and  night.  Oh  Letty,  you  are  not  yourself, 
you  are  blind,  you  are  dazed  !  Ah,  but  you  will  listen 
to  me  and  come  home  with  me — come  home  ! 

LETTV.  I  cannot.  I  dare  not  face  the  people  who 
knew  me.  You  know  how  bitter  your  good  people 
are  against  such  as  I.  Besides,  it  would  mean  ruin 
for  you.  Oh,  I  have  weighed  it  all !  Don't  you  see, 
father,  it  was  that  one  thought  that  drove  me  on — the 
thought  that  I  had  disgraced  you  and  put  a  stain  upon 
all  your  life's  work  !  If  I  come  back  your  people  will 
turn  you  out  from  your  place — it  will  take  the  very 
bread  from  your  lips. 

JACOB.  What  if  it  should?  Do  you  think  there 
is  anything  in  the  world  for  me  in  comparison  with 
winning  you  back,  my  dear?  Do  you  think  I  should 
ever  be  happy  again  if  I  thought  you  were  lost  ?  But 
nobody  knows  of  it,  dear.  I  could  not  bear  that 
people  should  talk  of  you — I  knew  you  would  soon 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  71 

come   back,  and  so,  dear,  nothing   is   known  —  your 
secret  is  quite  safe. 

LETTY.     How  good,  how  kind  of  you  ! 

JACOB.  Ah,  come  home,  dear  !  all  shall  be  for- 
gotten and  forgiven.  And  I  shall  always  be  with  you, 
and  no  one  shall  say  a  harsh  word,  or  think  a  harsh 
thought  of  you  !  Come  ! 

LETTY.  Oh,  if  I  dared  !  If  I  could  !  But  no  ! 
I'm  on  the  wrong  side  for  turning  back.  I  have 
given  him  my  promise. 

JACOB.  At,  Letty,  I  too  have  given  a  promise. 
I  promised  your  mother  on  her  deathbed  that  I  would 
watch  over  you.  See,  I  kneel  to  you  —  you  will  come. 
Letty,  your  mother  is  waiting  for  you  to  say  "  Yes." 

(Kneeling,  imploring^) 

LETTY  (after  a  long  pause).     Yes,  I  will  come. 

JACOB  (rises,  clasps  her)  .     My  child  !     My  child  ! 

LETTY.     Wait  for  me.     I'll  be  back  in  a  moment. 
(Exit  into  her  room.) 

JACOB.  She'll  come  —  she'll  come  !  I've  won  her 
back.  (Crosses,  and  sits  on  sofa.) 


Enter  FANSHAWE/r^w  balcony.     Comes  down. 

FANSHAWE.     Mr.  Fletcher  ! 

JACOB.  Yes,  sir.  (Rises.)  If  there  is  any  shame 
or  manhood  in  you,  keep  away  from  me  —  don't  tempt 
me  —  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  speak  to  you.  I 
should  forget  my  calling.  Keep  away  from  me,  sir. 

FANSHAWE.     What  is  your  business  here  ? 


72  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 

JACOB.  My  business  here,  sir,  is  this.  A  thief 
has  stolen  my  daughter  from  me — my  business,  sir,  is 
to  save  my  child  from  a  scoundrel. 

FANSHAWE  (getting  towards  LETTY'S  door) .  I  don't 
quarrel  with  your  terms,  but  I  don't  mean  to  give  up 
your  daughter.  (Crosses  to  door.)  She  is  of  age — 
she  is  here  by  her  own  free  will — she  has  promised  to 
stay  with  me  till  I  can  make  her  my  wife. 

JACOB.  Your  wife !  I  do  not  believe  your 
promises  of  marriage,  sir.  If  you  had  meant  honour- 
ably by  my  daughter,  why  have  you  not  already  made 
her  your  wife  ? 

FANSHAWE.  Well,  if  you  will  know,  because  I  am 
married  already. 

JACOB.  And  you  dared  to —  I  have  no  words. 
Out  of  my  way — give  me  my  daughter. 

FANSHAWE.  Excuse  me.  (Locks  door.)  She  shall 
not  leave  this  house  until  I  have  spoken  to  her. 

JACOB.  Not  a  word,  sir.  You  shall  not  have  her  ! 
Give  me  that  key. 

FANSHAWE.  No  !  she  is  her  own  mistress.  When 
she  comes  to  that  door  she  shall  choose  between  us. 
If  she  is  determined  to  go  with  you,  so  be  it.  But  if 
I  can  persuade  her  to  stay  I'll  fight  to  death  to  keep 
her. 

JACOB.  You  shall  not  have  her !  You  shall  not 
have  her  !  Give  me  that  key.  Help  !  Help  !  Help  ! 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS  AND    SINNERS  73 

Enter  GEORGE  KINGSMILL  by  balcony. 

George  !     (  Goes  to  him.') 

FANSHAWE.  Who  is  this  man?  Who  are  you, 
sir? 

GEORGE.  Letty  Fletcher's  betrothed  husband. 
She  was  to  have  been  my  wife,  but  you  came  be- 
tween us.  You  took  her  from  me.  Now  pay  me  the 
cost. 

FANSHAWE.     What  do  you  want? 

GEORGE.     I  will  kill  you,  or  you  shall  kill  me. 

JACOB.     George  !  George  ! 

GEORGE.  Mr.  Fletcher,  this  is  my  business.  {To 
FANSHAWE.)  I  know  nothing  of  your  rules  of  honour, 
as  you  call  them ;  make  any  rules  you  like,  so  long 
as  we  meet  face  to  face  on  equal  terms. 

FANSHAWE.  I  refuse  to  fight  a  madman  who 
forces  his  way  into  my  house. 

GEORGE.  What !  You  were  brave  enough  to  steal 
from  me  the  girl  I  loved  !  You  were  brave  enough 
to  ruin  and  betray  her,  and  you  haven't  courage 
enough  to  answer  for  it ! 

FANSHAWE  (about  to  respond,  checks  himself).  I 
will  not  fight  you. 

GEORGE.  You  shall !  You  rat,  if  you  won't  meet 
me  man  to  man,  I'll  kill  you  as  I  would  any  other 
rat.  {Striking  him.  FANSHAWE  drops  key.) 

JACOB  {coming  between  them).  George,  are  you 
mad  ?  Her  story  is  not  known.  I  am  trying  to  save 


74  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  in 

her  good  name.     If  you  kill  him  you  kill  her  good 
name.     George,  spare  him. 

LETTY'S  VOICE  (at  door).  Father,  I  am  ready. 
Why  have  you  locked  the  door? 

JACOB.  For  her  sake,  George,  it  must  not  be 
known — it  must  be  hushed  up,  for  her  sake. 

GEORGE  (a  long  pause — then  reluctantly) .  For  her 
sake,  to  save  her  good  name. 

(JACOB  picks  up  key  from  floor  where  FAN- 
SHAWE  has  dropt  it,  and  unlocks  the  door.) 

LETTY  enters  in  dress  she  wore  when  she  left  home. 
JACOB  takes  her  across  towards  door.  GEORGE  is 
up  stage. 

FANSHAWE.  Letty,  your  promise  !  You  shall  go 
to  India  with  me. 

GEORGE.     To  India? 

JACOB  (at  door) .  My  child  has  said  her  last  word 
to  you,  sir.  Leave  her  to  me,  and  let  me  spend  all 
my  life  in  teaching  her  to  forget  the  wrong  you  have 
done  her.  Come,  my  dear.  Home  !  Home  ! 

(FANSHAWE  makes  a  movement  to  stay  them, 
but  is  confronted  by  GEORGE,  who  comes 
down  centre  of  stage.} 

Quick  CURTAIN. 
(Five  days  elapse  between  Acts  HI.  and  IV.) 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I 
IN  FRONT  OF  BETHEL  CHAPEL  ON  SUNDAY  MORNING. 

The  chapel  is  a  plain  red-brick  building  with  large  doors 
for  chief  entrance.     A  small  door  at  side  leading  to 

vestry. 

Enter  HOGGARD    and   PRABBLE,   meeting  in    centre. 
During  this  scene  people  go  into  chapel. 

HOGGARD  (Bible  and  hymn-book  under  his  arm, 
evidently  in  very  good  spirits) .  Good-morning,  brother 
Prabble.  Good-morning. 

PRABBLE.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Hoggard;  you've 
been  away  for  a  few  days,  haven't  you  ? 

HOGGARD.  Yes,  brother  Prabble.  {Looking  to- 
wards vestry-door^)  Has  Fletcher  gone  in  yet? 

PRABBLE.  I  should  think  not — it  wants  some  time 
to  service.  We're  early. 

HOGGARD.  Yes,  I'm  always  early.  I  haven't 
been  late  for  public  worship  once  during  the  last 


76  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  iv 

twenty  years.  Have  you  thought  any  more  of  what 
we  were  talking  about  ?  Fletcher,  I  mean. 

PRABBLE.  Yes,  and  I  quite  agree  with  you — we 
want  a  younger  man  at  Bethel. 

HOGGARD.  Yes,  one  with  a  louder  voice,  and 
more  business-energy.  Religion's  no  good  nowadays, 
brother  Prabble,  unless  it's  combined  with  business- 
energy  and  push.  What's  the  secret  of  all  our  great 
revivalist  meetings?  Why,  business-energy  and  push 
and  advertising  !  Why  does  one  chapel  prosper  while 
another  goes  to  the  wall  ?  Business-energy  and  push. 
What's  been  the  secret  of  my  success  in  life  ?  Why, 
business-energy  and  push  and  advertising  !  "  Push 
yourself  to  the  front ;  cut  the  ground  from  under  your 
neighbour's  feet — get  up  a  big  sensation."  That's  the 
great  secret  of  success  in  business,  brother  Prabble ; 
and  the  same  rule  applies  to  religion. 

PRABBLE.     To  be  sure  it  does. 

HOGGARD.  Look  at  me  !  I  began  life  in  a  very 
humble  way.  My  origin  wasn't  at  all  distinguished. 
I  went  into  that  tanyard,  Prabble,  at  half  a- crown  a 
week,  and  without  shoes  to  my  feet.  I  think  I  may 
take  a  little  honest  pride  in  myself,  brother  Prabble. 

PRABBLE.     If  you  can't,  Mr.  Hoggard,  who  can  ? 

HOGGARD.  And  I  don't  mean  to  stop,  Prabble, 
till  I'm  one  of  our  merchant  princes,  and  an  M.P. 
That's  my  ambition,  Prabble — M.P. 

PRABBLE.  Well,  I'm  sure  there's  plenty  of  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  very  inferior  to  you,  Mr.  Hoggard. 


SCENE  i  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  77 

HOGGARD.  Just  so.  I  think  I  shall  be  rather 
above  the  average.  (Takes  PRABBLE'S  arm  confi- 
dentially and  leads  him  aside.)  Well,  we  were 
talking  about  religion.  What  we  want  at  Bethel  is 
a  sensation,  to  rouse  the  people  from  their  lethargy, 
and  cut  the  ground  from  under  the  Church-people's 
feet. 

PRABBLE.  Yes,  and  we  want  the  Stores  denounced, 
and  Mr.  Fletcher' ain't  the  man  to  do  it. 

HOGGARD  (confidentially).  At  the  same  time  we 
can't  turn  Fletcher  off  without  sufficient  reason.  We 
must  find  something  against  him. 

PRABBLE.  Yes,  he's  been  with  us  a  good  many 
years,  and  all  the  poor  folk  are  very  fond  of  him. 

HOGGARD.  Now  supposing  I  should  find  a  suffi- 
cient reason,  supposing  I  should  call  upon  him  to 
resign,  will  you  support  me? 

PRABBLE  (cordially).  Certainly,  certainly,  Mr. 
Hoggard.  You're  one  of  my  best  customers.  You 
support  my  shop,  and  I'll  support  you. 

HOGGARD.  Very  well,  Prabble,  I'll  speak  to  him 
this  morning,  before  he  goes  into  the  pulpit,  and  I 
can  rely  upon  you  ? 

PRABBLE.     Oh,  I  go  with  you  entirely. 

HOGGARD.  Then  we  understand  one  another. 
How  sweet  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in 
unity  !  It  is  like  the  precious  oil  that  poured  down 
Aaron's  beard !  Mrs.  Prabble  and  all  the  little 
Prabbles  quite  well? 


78  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  iv 

PRABBLE.  Quite  well,  thank  you.  How's  Mrs. 
Hoggard,  and  all  the  little  Hoggards?  (Both  going 
in.) 

HOGGARD.  All  in  capital  health.  What  glorious 
weather  ! 

PRABBLE.  Yes,  so  good  for  trade  !  (They  both 
move  towards  chapel-door.} 

HOGGARD.  Our  hearts  ought  to  be  filled  with 
thankfulness.  After  you,  brother  Prabble,  after  you  ! 
What  does  the  Bible  say  ?  "  He  that  abaseth  himself 
shall  be  exalted." 

(Makes  way  for  PRABBLE,  who  goes  into  chapelt) 
(Aside.}      I   can    twist    Prabble    round    my  finger. 
Now,  Mr.  Fletcher,  if  you  don't  agree  to  my  terms, 
this  is  the  last  Sunday  you'll  preach  at  Bethel. 

(GREENACRE  has  entered,  and  shuffled  up  to 
him,  stands  bowing  and  cringing — he  is 
very  disreputable.} 

Get  out,  get  out,  you  old  vagabond;  really  it's 
abominable  that  such  persons  should  be  allowed  in  a 
Christian  place  of  worship  !  What  is  religion  coming 
to?  (Exit into  chapel} 

LOT  enters.     GREENACRE  turns  to  him. 

GREENACRE.  Good  -  morning,  Muster  Burden. 
So  Muster  Fletcher's  come  back,  and  Miss  Letty, 
she's  home  again  too  !  La,  what  a  beautiful  sermon 
he  preached  last  Sunday — it  did  me  good,  it  refreshed 
me,  it  did. 


SCENE  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  79 

LOT.  Well,  you  wanted  refreshing,  after  getting 
into  such  a  state  on  the  Saturday  night. 

(UNCLE  BAMBERRY  has  entered,  an  old  work- 
ing man,  very  respectable,  dressed  in  his 
Sunday's  best,  very  deaf.} 

Lor  (to  UNCLE  BAMBERRY).  Well,  Uncle,  how's 
your  deafness? 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY  (holding  ear) .    Eh  ? 

LOT  (shoztting).    Your  infirmity? 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Eh  ?  Oh  !  she's  very  well — 
she's  at  home,  cooking  the  dinner.  (  Crosses  GREEN- 
ACRE,  who  has  been  bowing  and  cringing.}  No,  Peter, 
I've  got  nothing  for  you. 

GREENACRE.  I  was  saying,  what  a  beautiful 
sermon  we  had. 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Too  hot  for  me  !  Too  hot 
— scorches  me  up. 

GREENACRE.     Muster  Fletcher's  sermon — sermon. 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Sermon — Aye,  aye  !  I  can't 
hear.  I  haven't  heard  a  sermon  this  thirty  years  and 
more ;  my  infirmity,  can't  hear — daresay  it's  all  very 
good — I  always  come  to  chapel. 

GREENACRE  (sniffling).  Yes,  we  mustn't  neglect 
our  privileges. 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  I  work  in  the  brickfield  all 
week,  and  I  be  knocked  up  every  Saturday  night,  and 
I  can  sleep  a  deal  more  comfortable  in  chapel  nor 
anywhere  else — picks  me  up  for  the  week ;  and  my 


8o  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  rv 

missus  wants  me  out  of  the  way,  while  she  does  her 
bit  o'  cleaning  and  cooking. 

LOT.  But  you  shouldn't  snore,  it  disturbs  the 
congregation. 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Aye,  aye,  what  a  blessing 
Sunday  is  for  us  poor  people.  Whatever  should  we 
do  without  it  ? 

LOT  (shouting) .    You  mustn't  snore  in  the  sermon. 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Swore  in  the  sermon — bless 
my  soul,  who  did? 

LOT.     You  did  (shouting).    " Snored,  snored." 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Snored,  did  I?  (very  peni- 
tently). Well,  I  am  sorry!  Bless  me,  did  I  snore? 
You  don't  say  so?  Did  I  snore?  Did  I  now? 

LOT.  Yes,  and  we  can't  have  it,  especially  in  the 
front  pews.  You'd  better  take  a  back  seat — back  seat, 
right  out  of  the  way  (dropping  his  voice} — (shouting) 
right  at  the  back  of  the  gallery,  d'ye  hear  ? 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY.  Me  go  to  the  back  of  the 
gallery?  What  for?  I  pay  my  eighteenpence  a 
quarter  pew-rent,  and  if  I  be  awake  I  can't  hear  a 
blessed  word,  so  what's  the  harm  of  my  going  to  sleep  ? 

LOT.  But  you  must  go  to  sleep  gently — gently  ! 
(roars.)  Gently  !  you  old  fool ! 

UNCLE  BAMBERRY  (obstinately).  I  shan't  give  up 
my  corner.  (Crosses.)  Can't  hear  a  blessed  word 
what  the  minister  says.  I  daresay  it  all  very  good, 
you  know.  Bless  me,  did  I  snore?  dear,  dear,  dear 
now.  Shan't  give  up  my  corner.  (Exit  into  chapel.) 


SCENE  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  81 

GREENACRE.  I  never  sleep  in  the  sermon,  I 
wouldn't  miss  a  word  of  it  for  the  world ;  I  drink  it 
all  in,  I  do. 

LOT.  Yes,  if  there's  anything  to  drink,  you 
wouldn't  leave  much.  There,  you  be  off,  here's  Mr. 
Fletcher  coming. 

GREENACRE.     I  want  to  thank  him 

LOT.  You  want  to  get  a  dinner  out  of  him.  Be 
off  into  chapel,  and  pray  as  you  may  soon  be  took 
off  to  a  better  place,  for  we've  had  quite  enough  of 
you  here. 

(Takes  him  by  back  of  neck,  pushes  him  into  chapel.) 

JACOB  enters. 

JACOB  (hurriedly}.  Well,  Lot,  what  news ?  Is  my 
poor  child's  secret  safe  ? 

LOT.  It's  quite  safe,  Mr.  Fletcher.  I've  been 
talking  casual-like  among  the  congregation,  and  they 
all  think  Miss  Letty's  been  away  visiting  in  London. 

JACOB.  And  if  the  truth  had  leaked  out,  you 
think  you  would  have  heard  it,  Lot? 

LOT.  Of  course  I  should.  Don't  you  worry, 
sir,  it's  all  passed  over,  and  nobody  knows  a  word 
about  it. 

JACOB.  Thank  you,  Lot.  I  hope  I'm  not  doing 
wrong  in  hiding  the  truth,  but  I  couldn't  make  known 
her  shame. 

LOT.     Where  is  Miss  Letty? 

JACOB.    She's    there    at    home,  waiting    at    that 


82  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  iv 

window,  poor  child  !  She  was  afraid  to  be  seen  until  I 
had  come  on  and  got  to  know  whether  her  secret  was 
safe.  I  promised  her  I  would  wave  my  handkerchief 
if  all  were  well.  (Takes  out  handkerchief,  waves  it.) 
There,  you  see,  she's  seen  the  signal.  She'll  come. 

LOT.  Well,  I'm  glad  that  it's  passed  off  without 
any  trouble  or  unpleasantness,  sir. 

JACOB.  God  bless  you,  Lot !  You've  been  a  true 
friend  to  me. 

LOT.  Don't  you  say  anything  about  that,  sir,  or 
else  you'll  make  me  feel  very  uncomfortable.  Any- 
thing more  that  I  can  do,  I  shall  only  be  too  proud 
and  happy.  {Exit  into  chapel.) 

JACOB  (looking  off) .  Ah,  she's  started.  Yes,  dear, 
you  may  come,  all's  well — all's  well. 

GEORGE  KINGSMILL  enters. 
George ! 

GEORGE  (shaking  hands) .    There's  nothing  known  ? 

JACOB.  I  hope  not.  I  think  we  shall  save  her. 
George,  you  won't  be  rash  enough  to  carry  out  your 
dreadful  threat,  and  make  her  shame  known. 

GEORGE.  Not  if  it  will  harm  her.  She's  all  I 
care  for.  If  she  is  safe,  there  is  nothing  to  keep  me 
in  England,  and  the  sooner  I  leave  this  place  and 
her,  the  sooner  I  shall  forget.  I've  settled  every- 
thing, and  I  leave  to-morrow.  I've  come  to  say 
good-bye  to  you  and  to  the  place  where  my  fathers 
worshipped. 


SCENE  I  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  83 

JACOB.  Good-bye  is  a  hard  word  to  say  to  you, 
George.  You  know  it  was  my  dearest  wish  in  life  to 
have  you  for  my  son,  but  it  was  not  to  be. 

GEORGE.  Oh  sir,  when  I  got  your  letter  that 
night  telling  me  she  had  promised  to  be  my  wife  I 
wouldn't  have  changed  places  with  a  king.  I  knew 
it  couldn't  be  true  that  she  could  ever  love  me. 

JACOB.     My  poor  fellow  ! 

GEORGE.  However,  we  have  saved  her  good  name. 
How  is  she  ?  How  does  she  bear  it  ? 

JACOB.  Her  heart  is  broken,  George.  Ah,  she  is 
coming.  Don't  you  remember  how  she  used  to  trip 
along  the  street,  as  if  her  feet  were  wings.  How  she 
is  changed  ! 

GEORGE.  It  would  pain  her  to  meet  me  :  you'll 
wish  her  good-bye  for  me;  and  tell  her — oh  Mr. 
Fletcher,  I  may  put  the  whole  world  between  her  and 
me,  but  she'll  still  be  the  nearest  and  dearest  in  all 
the  world  to  me  !  Good-bye,  Mr.  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  Good-bye,  George,  good-bye.  God  bless 
you  ! 

(Exit  GEORGE  hastily  into  chapel ;  JACOB 
turns  to  meet  LETTY,  who  enters  timid  and 
anxious,  ashamed,  looking  fearfully  round.) 

LETTY.  Father !  You  are  quite  sure  they  don't 
know 

JACOB.  Not  a  syllable — it's  quite  hushed  up, 
nobody  knows  it. 

LETTY.     Yes,  I  know  it,  and  it  seems  to  me  the 


84  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  rv 

very  stones  and  trees  know  it,  for  nothing  here  at 
home  seems  the  same  as  it  used  to  be.  Father  tell 
me — do  I  {deeply  ashamed) — do  I  look  changed? 
There  is  no  difference  in  my  face,  is  there  ? 

JACOB.  No — no,  dear,  I  think  not.  You  look  a 
little  pale.  What  makes  you  ask  ? 

LETTY.  Because  {pauses — ashamed)  I  came  by 
some  children  in  the  street  just  now,  and  I  thought 
they  stared  at  me. 

JACOB.  No,  dear,  no;  it  is  only  fancy.  Look, 
dear,  here  are  Mrs.  Parridge  and  Fanny  coming. 
You'll  stay  and  speak  to  them. 

LETTY  (shrinking).     No — no,  father. 

JACOB.     Yes,  yes,  dear.     (Taking  her  hand.) 

Enter  MRS.  PARRIDGE  and  FANNY,  a  country-woman 
and  her  daughter,  of  the  better  labouring  class. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  Good  -  morning,  Mr.  Fletcher, 
good-morning,  Miss  Letty.  You've  been  away,  visit- 
ing, haven't  you  ? 

LETTY.     Yes. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant  holi- 
day. Where  have  you  been  ? 

LETTY.     I  have  been — in  London. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  We've  got  a  bit  of  news  for 
you,  Mr.  Fletcher,  and  for  you  too,  Miss  Letty. 
Come,  Fanny,  you  tell  it  to  Miss  Letty. 

FANNY  (giggling  and  blushing) .     Mother,  don't ! 


SCENE  i  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  85 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  Bless  the  girl,  it's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of.  You  ask  her,  Miss  Letty.  I  know  it'll 
interest  you.  Young  girls  always  like  to  hear  about 
getting  married. 

(LETTY  winces,  recovers  herself,  and  nerves  her- 
self to  speak  to  FANNY.) 

LETTY.     You  are  going  to  be  married,  Fanny? 

FANNY  (curtseying).  Yes,  miss — please  miss,  I'm 
going  to  be  married  to  William  Higgins. 

LETTY.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy,  with  all  my 
heart. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  We  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you'd 
be  kind  enough  to  marry  them,  Mr.  Fletcher? 

JACOB.     Why  yes,  to  be  sure  I  will,  Mrs.  Parridge. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  And,  Miss  Letty,  you'll  come 
too? 

LETTY  (quickly}.  Yes,  yes,  I  shall  be  pleased  to 
come. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  That's  right.  What  a  blessing 
it  is  to  have  good  children  like  ours,  Mr.  Fletcher. 
My  Fanny  is  a  good  girl ;  she  isn't  like  that  Lucy 
Gatehouse.  (LETTY  winces  and  turns  away.) 

JACOB  (quickly).  It  isn't  for  us  to  judge,  Mrs. 
Parridge.  Who  made  us  to  differ?  Who  made 
your  daughter  so  much  better  than  her  companion? 
Let  Him  judge  who  knows  all  hearts,  and  let  us  be 
dumb. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  I  suppose  you'll  be  asking  us 
to  your  wedding  one  of  these  days,  Miss  Letty  ? 


86  SAINTS   AND    SINNERS  ACT  iv 

JACOB.     No,  no,  Letty  has  no  thought  of  marriage. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that 
such  a  sweet  pretty  flower  as  our  Miss  Letty  won't 
be  gathered  by  somebody. 

JACOB.  Come,  it's  time  for  me  to  go  in.  Good- 
morning,  Mrs.  Parridge.  Good-morning,  Fanny. 

MRS.  PARRIDGE.  Good-morning,  sir ;  good-morn- 
ing, Miss  Letty. 

(FANNY   curtsies.      Exeunt   MRS.   PARRIDGE 
and  FANNY  into  chapel.} 

LETTY  (leans  on  JACOB'S  shoulder}.  Oh  father, 
my  punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear  !  Every 
word  they  spoke  went  to  my  heart. 

JACOB.  They  meant  it  all  in  kindness,  dear ;  and 
don't  you  see,  it  shows  they  suspected  nothing,  it 
shows  you  are  safe. 

LETTY.  If  I  could  be  sure  that  the  past  will 
never  be  known. 

JACOB.     The  danger  is  over,  dear.     All  is  safe. 

(Crosses.) 

LETTY.  I  will  go  through  your  vestry.  Then  I 
shall  not  meet  anybody. 

JACOB.  Come  then,  dear.  Dry  up  your  tears, 
and  try  to  look  a  little  more  like  your  old  self. 
Courage,  dear— it's  only  this  once.  The  ordeal  will 
soon  be  over.  Courage,  courage  ! 

(Leads  her  in  at  side-door?) 

(Scene  draws  up  and  discovers  Scene  II.) 


SCENE  II  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  87 

SCENE  II 
THE  VESTRY-ROOM  AT  THE  CHAPEL, 

A  plain  white-washed  room  ;  doors  leading  to  chapel,  to 
Jacob's  room,  and  to  outside  passage.   Window  at  back. 

Discover  HOGGARD  walking  up  and  down  with 
impatient  malignant  expectation. 

HOGGARD.  Make  haste,  Mr.  Fletcher !  Make 
haste  !  (JACOB  and  LETTY  pass  window?) 

Oh,  here  you  are  at  last. 

JACOB  and  LETTY  enter. 

JACOB.     Good-morning,  Mr.  Hoggard. 
HOGGARD.     I  want  a  word  with  you.     (Sternly.) 
JACOB.     I  have  only  a  few  minutes  before  I  go 
into  the  pulpit.     Will  you  come  after  the  service  ? 

HOGGARD.  No,  now.  (Frowning  and  staring  at 
LETTY.)  You  can  go,  madam,  your  company  isn't 
wanted. 

LETTY  (indignantly} .    You  forget  yourself,  sir. 
HOGGARD.    Oh,  none  of  that,  my  lady,  it  won't  wash. 
JACOB.     Step  into  my  room,  Letty. 
LETTY.     Oh  father,  had  I  not  better  stay? 
JACOB  (taking  her  up  stage  to  door).     Hush  ! 

(Puts  her  into  room  at  back,  closes  door 
after  her.  Harmonium  in  chapel  plays 
voluntary  all  through  the  scene,  until  the 
entrance  of  the  congregation.) 


88  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  iv 

JACOB.     Well,  Mr.  Hoggard. 

HOGGARD  (has  sea  fed  himself  with  calm  determined 
malice}.  I  understand  you  are  sending  a  man  to 
my  place  to  value  my  stock  and  premises  for  Mrs. 
Bristow. 

JACOB.  Yes,  I  have  given  him  instructions  to 
begin  to-morrow. 

HOGGARD.  You'd  better  withdraw  your  instruc- 
tions. 

JACOB.     I  cannot. 

HOGGARD.  Oh  yes,  you  can,  and  you  will  too. 
You'll  accept  Crisp's  valuation. 

JACOB.     You  have  already  had  your  answer. 

(Turns    up    stage    towards    door    at    back, 
HOGGARD  rises  and  intercepts  him.) 

HOGGARD.    Stay,  where  are  you  going? 

JACOB.     To  prepare  for  the  pulpit. 

HOGGARD.  Stop  a  minute,  sir.  Before  you 
stand  in  that  pulpit,  I  want  you  to  give  me  an 
exact  account  of  your  daughter's  conduct  for  the  last 
month. 

JACOB,  (surprised,  shaken).  Why,  what  makes  you 
ask — she  has  been  away  from  home,  visiting. 

HOGGARD.     Where  ?    With  whom  ? 

JACOB.     That  is  my  business. 

HOGGARD.  And  mine,  as  a  deacon  of  this  chapel. 
Come,  you'd  better  accept  Crisp's  valuation. 

JACOB.  In  mercy's  name,  what  do  you  suspect? 
— what  do  you  know? 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  89 

HOGGARD.  You  accept  our  valuation — I  suspect 
nothing;  I  know  nothing.  You  refuse  (advancing 
towards  chapel-door) — I  forbid  you  to  enter  that 
pulpit  till  I  have  told  all  the  congregation  the  truth 
about  their  Minister's  daughter,  where  she  has  been, 
what  she  is. 

(  JACOB  falls  helplessly  into  chair  by  side  of  tabled) 
Oh,  you'd  preach  to  other  people,  would  you  ?  You'd 
show  us  the  straight  path  !  Look  at  home  !  Preach 
to  your  own  child  !  Set  your  own  house  in  order  ! 

JACOB  (hoarse,  calm).     You  know,  then? 

HOGGARD.  Everything.  I  had  my  suspicions, 
and  last  Wednesday,  just  to  satisfy  a  little  curiosity,  I 
got  a  private  detective  to  hunt  up  Captain  Fanshawe. 
Oh,  you  needn't  be  alarmed.  I  know  he  has  left 
England,  but  he's  been  lately  living  at  Torquay.  I 
went  to  Torquay.  Were  you  ever  there? 

JACOB  (rises,  comes  to  HOGGARD).  Mr.  Hoggard, 
you  know  my  child's  secret.  Yes,  she  is  guilty.  Ah, 
but  you  do  not  know  she  had  no  chance  of  escape. 
You  will  not  ruin  her.  You  will  have  mercy  upon 
her.  Do  as  you  choose  to  me,  but  spare  her.  Do 
not  publish  her  shame  to  the  world.  Spare  my  poor 
child.  Think  if  it  were  your  own  daughter. 

(HOGGARD  laughs  contemptuously,  and  shakes 

his  head.) 

Think  what  it  means  to  her  and  me.  I  have  snatched 
her  from  sin  and  despair.  I  have  won  her  back  to 
peace  and  purity  and  home-love.  She  is  beginning 


9o  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  iv 

her  life  anew.  She  has  repented  in  the  dust.  I  will 
answer  for  her  that  all  her  future  shall  be  as  white 
and  stainless  as  a  child's.  Have  mercy  !  If  you 
make  known  her  guilt,  it  will  perhaps  madden  her 
back  to  sin  and  destruction.  Ah,  but  you  will  not 
refuse  mercy  to  a  soul  that  cries  to  you  in  such  need. 
Mercy  for  my  poor  wronged  daughter  !  Give  her  one 
chance  to  redeem  the  past.  Mercy — you  can  save 
her  or  destroy  her.  Her  future  is  in  your  hands. 
Mercy,  mercy,  mercy  ! 

HOGGARD.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  harm  the  girl, 
but  her  future  is  in  your  hands,  not  mine.  Come, 
now,  nobody  except  me  knows  or  shall  know  any- 
thing of  this  business.  I  shall  hold  my  tongue. 
Come,  accept  Crisp's  valuation,  and  she  shall  be  safe. 

JACOB.  You  will  drive  me  to  that?  Either  I 
must  stand  by  and  let  you  rob  the  widow  and  orphans 
of  my  dead  friend,  or  you  will  blast  my  child's  name. 
That  is  what  you  offer  me  ? 

HOGGARD.  Yes,  if  you  like  to  put  it  in  that  way ; 
and  remember,  if  this  business  comes  to  light,  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  call  upon  you  to  resign  your 
ministry,  and  I  don't  think  you'll  find  it  very  easy  to 
get  another  if  I  have  anything  to  do  with  the  refer- 
ences. Come,  now,  which  is  it  to  be  ? 

JACOB.  Oh,  it  is  devilish  to  put  me  to  such  a 
trial !  Man,  you  have  children  of  your  own.  How 
dare  you  tempt  me?  It  is  beyond  my  strength. 
What  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  ? 


SCENE  II  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  91 

HOGGARD.  Come,  the  time's  short.  I've  made 
up  my  mind.  You  know  me.  You  accept  our  valua- 
tion ?  Yes  or  no  ? 

JACOB  (after  a  pause,  very  determinedly).    No.  I  will 
not  pay  the  price  you  ask.     You  shall  not  defraud  your 
dead  partner's  wife.     I  refuse  your  offer,  Mr.  Hoggard. 
(The  door  at  back  opens,  LETTY  enters,  very 
pale.    JACOB  rushes  to  her  and  takes  her 
in  his  arms.) 
Letty,  my  girl !     Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you? 

LETTY  {calm,  despairing).  There  is  no  need  to 
tell  me.  I  have  heard  all. 

JACOB.  Oh,  forgive  me,  my  darling  !  I  am  sorely 
pressed,  and  I  don't  know  which  way  to  turn.  Tell 
me,  my  child,  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

LETTY.  Father,  you  shan't  put  yourself  in  this 
man's  power  for  my  sake.  Besides,  what  would  be 
the  good? — he  knows  it  to-day,  and  all  the  world 
may  know  it  to-morrow.  Oh,  I  would  rather  be  at 
the  mercy  of  all  the  world  than  at  his  !  Oh,  I  felt 
sure  it  would  come  !  I  knew  we  couldn't  hide  it. 
Never  mind — I  can  bear  it !  I  will ! 

JACOB.  My  brave  girl !  (LETTY  crosses  to  JACOB, 
who  embraces  her.)  Yes,  you  are  right ;  now  I  feel 
strong  again.  (To  HOGGARD.)  You  hear  what  my 
child  says,  sir.  We  will  have  no  dealings  with  you. 
Do  your  worst,  we  are  ready;  we  ask  for  no  mercy, 
we  stand  upon  the  truth. 

HOGGARD    (going    to    door).      Very   well.      Your 


92  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  iv 

congregation  is  there :  then  I  am  to  make .  a  full 
statement  to  them  of  your  daughter's  conduct;  I 
am  to  ask  them  whether  they  think  such  a  character 
is  fit  to  mix  with  our  wives  and  daughters,  and 
whether  the  father  who  brought  up  such  a  child 
is  fit  to  rule  a  Christian  congregation?  I  am  to  open 
this  door  and  ask  them  that? 

]b.cov  (springing forward).    No,  stand  aside,  sir.    I 

will  ask  them  myself.     (Thrusts  HOGGARD  aside,  flings 

open  the  folding-doors,  calls  out  aloud.)     My  friends  ! 

my  friends  !  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  !     Come 

and  hear  me  all  of  you  !     All  of  you  come  and  hear ! 

(Harmonium  ceases,  and  congregation  crowd  up 

to  folding-doors.     Amongst  them   GEORGE 

KINGSMILL,     PRABBLE,     MRS.      PARRIDGE, 

FANNY,     LOT,     UNCLE     BAMBERRY,     and 

GREENACRE.) 

All  of  you !  This  way !  Do  you  hear?  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  ! 

I  have  worked  amongst  you  for  more  than  twenty 
years.  I  have  stood  up  in  that  place  and  taught  you 
for  half  my  life,  and  I  thought  to  end  my  days  in 
your  service.  But  the  time  has  come  when  I  can 
guide  you  no  longer.  Providence  has  laid  a  heavy 
trial  upon  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  preach  to  you  again, 

my  friends,  because — because 

(Turns  to  LETTY  and  shelters  her  in  his  arms.) 
Oh  my  dear  child,  how  can  I  say  it  ? 

LETTY.     Go  on  !  go  on  !  I  can  bear  it ! 


SCENE  II  SAINTS   AND  SINNERS  93 

JACOB.  — because — you  know  my  child  has  been 
away  from  home.  A  villain  trapped  her  into  his 
power ;  she  was  at  his  mercy  in  a  great  city.  My 
friends,  my  own  child  is  such  a  one — yes,  such  a  one 
as  that  woman  who  was  sent  away  to  sin  no  more. 
And  knowing  how  bitterly  and  truly  she  has  repented, 
I  would  have  hidden  her  shame — yes,  you  will  not 
think  any  the  worse  of  me  for  trying  to  hide  it — but 
it  has  come  to  light — it  is  known  in  your  midst — and 
now  I  dare  not  stand  up  in  that  place  as  an  example 
any  more.  My  friends,  my  teaching  among  you  is  at 
an  end. 

( Turns  to  LETTY,  -who  is  sobbing  on  his  shoulder. 
Congregation  talk  among  themselves^) 

HOGGARD  (comes  down).  Then  we  understand 
you  resign  your  ministry,  Mr.  Fletcher? 

JACOB.     You  understand  aright,  sir. 

HOGGARD.  Under  the  circumstances,  I  don't  see 
what  else  you  could  do,  so  on  behalf  of  the  members 
generally  we  accept  your  resignation. 

GEORGE  (stepping  forward  from  crowd).  Wait  a 
bit.  You  are  going  to  turn  Mr.  Fletcher  from  his 
pulpit  ? 

HOGGARD.  Well,  we  have  got  to  think  of  public 
opinion.  The  Church  -  people  look  down  upon  us. 
They  treat  us  like  dirt  as  it  is,  and  what  would  they 
say  if  it  was  known  that  we  kept  on  a  minister  who 
had  such  a  daughter  as  that  girl  there  ? 

GEORGE.     Silence  !     Mr.  Fletcher  and  all  of  you, 


94 


SAINTS   AND    SINNERS  ACT  iv 


my  family  is  well  known  in  this  neighbourhood.  We 
have  lived  here  for  seven  generations,  and  no  soul 
living  can  breathe  a  word  against  us.  I  am  leaving 
England  to-morrow  morning  for  ever.  Before  I  start, 
Mr.  Fletcher,  I  am  willing  to  marry  your  daughter, 
and  I  pledge  you  my  word  to  leave  her  in  your  care. 
I  offer  to  give  her  the  protection  of  my  name,  and  if 
any  man  dares  to  speak  a  word  against  her  who  is  to 
bear  that  name,  let  him  say  it  in  my  hearing,  and  I 
will  answer  him. 

LETTY  (to  JACOB)  .  No,  no,  father  !  Tell  him  it 
cannot  be.  I  have  done  him  too  much  wrong 
already.  (Aside.)  And  this  is  the  man  whose  love 
I  threw  away  ! 

JACOB  (to  GEORGE).  No,  George,  we  cannot 
accept  your  sacrifice,  and  it  would  not  avail.  The 
past  would  still  remain.  Disgrace  would  still  hang 
about  us.  My  friends,  I  cannot  speak  to  you  any 
more  this  morning.  Mr.  Hoggard,  we  will  give  up 
the  minister's  house  as  soon  as  it  is  wanted  for  a  new 
tenant. 

LETTY.     Oh  father,  what  will  become  of  us  ? 

JACOB.  Come,  Letty,  we  will  go  home.  The 
ravens  are  cared  for,  and  we  shall  not  be  forgotten. 
Come  ! 

LETTY.  No,  father,  I  am  not  fit  to  go  with  you  ! 
Throw  me  off.  Then  they  cannot  take  your  place 
from  you.  (Goes  away  from  him.)  Disown  me  ! 

JACOB.     Nay,  my  Master  never  disowned  such  as 


SCENE  ii  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  95 

you.  Disown  you  !  Nay,  I  own  you  as  my  dear 
daughter — my  dear  child  !  Be  brave,  dear  !  we  have 
faced  the  truth.  Now  we  have  no  need  to  hide  the 
past.  No,  from  this  hour  we  will  begin  to  live  it 
down. 

CURTAIN 
(Four  years  elapse  between  Acts  IV.  and  V.) 


ACT   V 


SCENE — JACOB'S  COTTAGE  ON  THE  OUTSKIRTS 
OF  STEEPLEFORD 

A  very  poverty-stricken  room,  but  clean  and  tidy.  Door 
and  window  at  back  opening  into  lane — through 
the  window  a  wintry  sunset  fades  into  twilight. 
Door  left  leading  into  kitchen.  Door  right  leading 
to  staircase.  Cupboard  right.  Old  sofa,  broken- 
down  chairs.  Fireplace  down  stage  left,  and  looking- 
glass  over  it. 

LOT  enters  at  back  as  LYDIA  comes  from  staircase. 

LYDIA.     Oh,  it's  you,  Lot ! 

LOT.     How's  Miss  Letty  to-day? 

LYDIA.  She's  just  fallen  asleep.  She  seems  quite 
bright  and  lively  this  afternoon,  but  I'm  afraid  to 
trust  it,  Lot — it's  deceitful. 

LOT.  Miss  Letty  overtaxed  her  strength  nursing 
all  them  people  when  the  fever  was  about. 


ACT  v  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  97 

LYDIA.  To  be  sure  she  did.  Flesh  and  blood 
ain't  cast-iron,  and  there  she  was  in  them  courts  and 
alleys,  week  after  week,  night  and  day,  with  scarcely 
any  rest. 

LOT.  Yes,  and  amongst  the  very  worst  characters 
of  the  town. 

LYDIA.  Doctor  Marsden  told  me  that  her  nursing 
saved  more  lives  than  his  medicine,  and  I  said, "  Very 
likely,  doctor, — I've  got  a  very  poor  idea  of  physic  in 
general,"  I  said,  "  and  I  daresay  yours  ain't  no  better 
than  the  rest."  And  I  said,  "  I'm  not  particular  what 
I  turn  my  hand  to,  but  as  for  nursing  beggars  and 
thieves  and  chimney-sweeps,  why,"  I  said,  "  I'd  rather 
the  Lord  in  His  mercy  took  'em  all  to  Himself  right 
straight  away." 

LOT.  Ah,  if  ever  there  was  an  angel  on  earth  it's 
been  our  Miss  Letty  this  last  four  years. 

LYDIA.  Yes.  I  don't  wish  that  Captain  Fanshawe 
any  harm  now  he's  dead,  but  I'm  very  glad  I  haven't 
to  answer  for  his  wickedness,  that's  all ! 

LOT.  It  seemed  like  a  judgment  on  him,  his 
getting  killed  over  in  India  almost  as  soon  as  he  set 
his  foot  there.  Where's  Mr.  Fletcher? 

LYDIA.  He's  gone  to  see  about  a  Sunday's 
preaching  at  Little  Swancot. 

LOT.     I  suppose  things  are  no  better  with  him  ? 

LYDIA.  No,  he's  had  the  offer  of  several  minis- 
tries, but  when  Hoggard  wrote  to  'em  about  Miss 
Letty  of  course  they  wouldn't  have  him. 


98  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  v 

LOT.  Well,  it's  a  comfort  Hoggard  won't  be  able 
to  do  him  any  more  harm. 

LYDIA.     Have  they  caught  Hoggard  yet? 

LOT.  No,  but  there's  a  reward  offered  for  him. 
He'd  better  take  care.  Tom  Marks  and  a  lot  of  the 
subscribers  to  the  Penny  Bank  are  after  him,  and 
they  swear  they'll  lynch  him. 

LYDIA.  I  hope  they  will.  Fancy  Hoggard  being 
wanted  by  the  police  ! 

LOT.  Hoggard  was  too  grasping.  If  he'd  been 
satisfied  he  might  have  been  a  rich  man  to-day,  but 
he  took  to  speculating,  and  the  more  money  he  lost 
the  more  he  kept  throwing  after  it,  till  he  got  quite 
out  of  his  depth. 

LYDIA.  Quite  into  his  depth  you  mean.  The 
gaol  will  be  just  the  right  place  for  him.  The  rascal, 
to  rob  poor  people  of  their  little  savings  as  they  put 
by  for  their  old  age  ! 

LOT.  Why,  he  was  bankrupt  when  he  started  this 
Penny  Bank.  I  can  prove  that ! 

LYDIA.  You  can?  Then  you  do  !  You  go  and 
give  all  the  evidence  you  can  against  him,  and  if  you 
don't  get  him  fourteen  years,  I  shall  never  respect  you 
again. 

LOT.  Yes,  Miss  Lydia,  I  will — I'd  do  anything 
to  please  you.  (  Ogling  her.) 

LYDIA.  There,  that's  enough,  Mr.  Burden.  Here's 
the  minister  ! 


ACT  v  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  99 

Enter  JACOB  at  back,  very  much  aged  and  broken-down. 

JACOB  (eagerly} .  Well  Lydia,  how  is  she  ?  (  Going 
to  staircase-door,  opening  it  gently.) 

LYDIA.     She  seems  rather  better. 

JACOB.  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  I'm  sure  she'll  get 
better — my  dear  brave  girl ! 

LYDIA.     She's  just  fallen  asleep. 

JACOB.  I  won't  disturb  her  !  (  Closes  door  softly, 
Stays  at  door  and  listens.')  Ah,  Lot,  my  lad,  how  are  you  ? 

LOT.     Pretty  moderate,  sir.     How's  yourself? 

(Shaking  hands.) 

JACOB.  My  heart  fails  me  sometimes,  Lot.  I'm 
going  down  the  hill  fast.  I  can't  get  a  ministry,  so  I 
get  a  Sunday's  preaching  in  the  villages.  They  don't 
give  me  much,  and  sometimes  there's  twelve  miles  to 
walk  for  it ;  but  it  keeps  the  wolf  from  the  door,  and 
he's  been  very  near  us  lately,  Lot.  (  Opens  the  stair- 
case-door again  gently,  listens  anxiously.) 

LYDIA.  The  vicar  called  again  this  afternoon  to 
inquire  after  Miss  Letty. 

JACOB.     The  vicar — what  did  he  say? 

LYDIA.  He  hoped  Miss  Letty  would  soon  be  better, 
for  she  was  a  great  help  to  him  amongst  the  poor.  I  don't 
believe  the  vicar's  half  a  bad  sort — though  he  is  Church. 

JACOB.  I  must  step  up  and  have  a  peep  at  her — 
she'll  soon  be  better  now — yes,  she'll  soon  be  better. 

(Exit  at  staircase-door^) 

LYDIA.     He  tries  to  persuade  himself  that  she's 


ioo  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  ACT  v 

getting  well,  and  I  haven't  the  heart  to  tell  him  the 
truth.  He's  got  enough  to  bear  without  that. 

LOT.  It's  a  hard  struggle  for  him,  and  for  you, 
too,  Miss  Lydia. 

LYDIA.  Nobody  knows  how  hard,  Lot.  (Opens 
the  cupboard.}  There's  the  cupboard — you  see  there's 
half  a  loaf  in  it,  and  when  that's  gone,  I  don't  know 
where  the  next  mouthful  is  to  come  from. 

LOT.  But  I  do — it's  coming  out  of  this  purse. 
(Pulling  out  his  purse. )  Oh  Miss  Lydia  (sighing) ,  I  Ve 
thought  of  such  a  beautiful  plan  ! 

LYDIA.  No  don't — Mr.  Burden — don't !  I  know 
what's  coming  when  you  look  like  that. 

LOT.  Oh  Miss  Lydia,  I  know  I'm  not  very  hand- 
some  

LYDIA.  No  you  ain't,  Mr.  Burden,  and  that's  gospel- 
truth.  Don't  look  like  that,  there's  a  dear  good  man  ! 

LOT  (correcting  his  sheep' s-eyes) .  I  won't  if  you 
don't  like  it. 

LYDIA.  That's  better.  But  it's  no  use  talking 
about  marrying — I've  told  you  dozens  of  times  I 
won't  have  you. 

LOT.  Why  not,  Miss  Lydia?  I'd  love  and 
cherish  you,  and  I'd  always  obey  you,  and  I'd  bring 
you  home  my  wages  every  Saturday  night — and  I'm  a 
very  steady  man — and  you  know,  Lydia,  you're  getting 
on — you'd  better  make  haste  and  snap  me  up. 

LYDIA.  I'm  much  obliged,  Mr.  Burden,  but  I 
can't  leave  my  poor  old  master  and  Miss  Letty. 


ACT  v  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  101 

LOT.  Why  should  you  leave  them?  I'm  going 
to  have  three  pounds  a  week  in  my  new  situation, 
and  you  know,  you're  such  a  good  manager,  Lydia, 
why  shouldn't  we  all  have  a  home  together — only,  you 
know,  you'd  better  be  Mrs.  Burden  for  the  sake  of 
propriety. 

LYDIA.  Do  you  mean  it?  If  I  marry  you,  you'll 
give  a  home  to  the  minister  and  Miss  Letty. 

LOT.     Yes,  that  I  will. 

LYDIA.  You're  a  downright  good  little  man,  Lot, 
and  I've  a  good  mind 

LOT  (eagerly}.  Don't  spoil  a  good  mind.  Say 
you'll  put  up  with  me. 

LYDIA  (looking  him  up  and  down).  Well,  there, 
perhaps  I  might  do  worse. 

LOT.  Oh  Miss  Lydia  !  (  Clasping  her  loutishly} 
I  suppose  I  may  take  a  kiss,  Miss  Lydia? 

LYDIA  (submitting  to  be  kissed}.  Well,  just  a  little  one, 
then.  (LOT  kisses  her  very  gravely  and  reverentially} 

LOT  (very  gratefully).  Thank  you,  Miss  Lydia — 
I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you. 

LYDIA.  There — that's  enough  of  that  nonsense. 
Now  there's  nothing  in  the  house  for  the  minister's 
supper. 

LOT.    Then  let's  go  and  buy  something. 

LYDIA.  Come  along,  then.  (Putting  on  bonnet 
and  shawl}  The  thousands  of  times  as  I've  said  I 
never  would  get  married,  and  now  I've  been  and  let 
myself  be  persuaded  into  it ! 


102  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  v 

LOT.  Yes,  there's  lots  of  women  say  they  never 
will,  but  they're  generally  persuaded  into  it  at  last. 
Just  another  little  one,  Lydia — eh?  (Kisses  her.) 

LYDIA.     What  fools  women  are  ! 

(Exeunt  door  in  flat.  After  a  pause,  enter 
JACOB  from  staircase  door,  he  stands  at 
door  a  moment,  and  then  looking  off.) 

JACOB.  So  pale  and  beautiful !  So  peaceful  in 
her  sleep  !  It's  not  like  earthly  beauty — it's  an 
angel's  face.  But  she's  young.  The  young  are  not 
meant  to  die.  It's  the  ripe  corn  that  comes  to  the 
sickle,  not  the  green  shoots.  I  must  set  to  work  on 
my  sermon.  (Begins  to  write,  throws  down  pen  in 
despair?)  I  can't  write !  They  complain  that  my 
sermons  are  too  mournful.  Well,  how  can  I  preach 
joyful  sermons  when  I've  scarcely  had  anything  to 
eat  for  two  or  three  days,  and  have  walked  six  miles 
in  the  rain?  Oh,  I'm  tired  of  it!  Why  should  I 
struggle  any  longer?  I'm  down,  I'm  beaten!  The 
world  is  too  much  for  me  !  I  can  bear  up  no  longer  ! 
(Breaks  down,  sobs  for  some  moments,  then  with  a 
great  effort  raises  himself?)  Come  !  come  !  come, 
Jacob  Fletcher,  what's  the  matter  now?  What's  all 
this  murmuring  about?  (Goes  to  looking-glass  on 
wall,  stands  in  front  of  it,  and  harangues  himself?) 
What's  the  meaning  of  it,  Jacob  Fletcher,  eh  ?  Aren't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Why,  you  poor  miserable 
old  coward,  have  you  gone  through  so  much  trouble, 
and  are  you  going  to  give  way  at  last  ?  Thank  God 


ACT  v  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  103 

that  you  have  saved  your  daughter,  and  that  she's 
lived  down  all  disgrace  and  evil  -  speaking  !  Let's 
have  no  more  of  this  whimpering  !  Work  !  work  ! 
work  !  Oh,  you're  hungry  are  you  ?  (  Goes  to  cupboard 
and  takes  out  half-loaf  on  plate.}  Half  a  loaf !  Well, 
half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread.  Now  what  says 
the  old  proverb,  "  Good  meat  requires  good  drink  !  " 
Well,  a  cup  of  clear  cold  water  from  the  well  outside. 
Why,  there  !  That's  right,  Jacob  Fletcher !  That's 
more  like  yourself.  Now,  you're  a  man  again. 

{Exit  with  candle,  very  cheerful,  left  door.) 

A  pause.  HOGGARD  enters  hastily  as  if  pursued.  He 
is  gaunt,  ragged,  starving;  he  looks  round  terrified, 
listens. 

HOGGARD.  Have  I  thrown  them  off?  {Goes  to 
window.}  Hark  !  there's  somebody  coming  !  {Goes 
to  door}  No,  it's  only  the  wind.  {Comes  down} 
Where  am  I?  Who  lives  here?  I  can't  hold  out 
any  longer  !  I  must  have  something  to  eat  or  I  shall 
die.  {Sees  bread  on  table}  Ah,  bread  !  {Seizes  it, 
is  about  to  eat  when  JACOB  re-enters  left,  with  candle} 
Ah  !  {Drops  the  bread.} 

JACOB  {surprised}.     Mr.  Hoggard  ! 

HOGGARD  {dropping  on  his  knees  before  JACOB). 
Yes,  Mr.  Fletcher  !  They're  hunting  me  !  They're 
just  outside  !  Don't  give  me  up  to  them,  Mr.  Fletcher  ! 
I  know  I  deserve  it,  but  have  mercy  on  me — mercy ! 
Let  me  stay  here  a  few  minutes  till  they're  passed ! 


104  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  V 

Don't  turn  me  out !  ( Clutches  JACOB'S  knees,  falls 
helplessly  against  them.}  Oh  ! 

JACOB.  Pray  get  up,  Mr.  Hoggard.  I  will  shelter 
you  as  far  as  I  can. 

HOGGARD.  Thank  you  !  thank  you  !  (Sits  in 
chair.)  Oh  Mr.  Fletcher,  you  don't  know  what  I've 
suffered  !  I've  been  sleeping  in  hovels  and  under 
hedges,  and  for  a  week  I've  had  nothing  in  my  lips 
but  what  the  beasts  eat !  I'm  starving — I'm  dying 
with  hunger  !  (Rises.) 

JACOB  (pushing  the  bread  towards  him).  You're 
welcome  to  what  I  have.  Eat ! 

(  HOGGARD  seizes  the  bread  with  wolfish  hunger, 
when  sound  of  men  shouting  is  heard  out- 
side— men  coming  towards  door.) 

IST  MAN  (outside).     Perhaps  he's  in  here. 

2ND  MAN  (outside).     Let's  see  !     Let's  see  ! 

OMNES.    Ay,  ay  !    Come  in  !     (Etc.  etc.  murmurs.) 

HOGGARD  (dropping  loaf).  They're  after  me! 
Hide  me  somewhere  !  For  mercy's  sake,  hide  me  ! 
They'll  kill  me,  they'll  tear  me  to  pieces !  Hide 
me  !  Hide  me  !  Hide  me  ! 

(Clutching JACOB  in  deadly  terror  as  knocking 
at  door  interrupts  him.  JACOB  runs  and 
bolts  door,  returns  to  left  door.) 

JACOB.  This  way.  (Opens  door.)  Straight  through 
there,  and  you  can  get  out  at  the  back.  I'll  keep 
them  here  until  you  are  safe  away. 


ACT  v  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  105 

{Knocking  at  door  louder,  men  murmuring 
and  shouting.     Exit  HOGGARD.) 

MARKS  (outside) .  Open  the  door !  Open  the 
door,  or  we'll  break  it  open  ! 

JACOB  (opens  the  door  in  fiat) .    What  do  you  want  ? 

(MARKS   and  one  or  two    rough    men   enter 
cottage,  others  are  seen  outside?) 

MARKS.  We're  after  that  rascal  Hoggard.  He's 
robbed  the  Penny  Bank  with  our  savings.  Why,  it's 
Mr.  Fletcher,  ain't  it  ? 

JACOB.     Yes,  Tom  Marks.     You  remember  me. 

MARKS.  Yes  sir,  and  Miss  Fletcher  too,  God 
bless  her !  She  nursed  my  poor  little  Polly  all 
through  the  fever. 

JACOB.  My  daughter  is  lying  very  ill  upstairs. 
She  has  just  fallen  asleep.  You  will  not  disturb  her. 

MARKS.  Not  for  the  world,  bless  her  sweet  face. 
(Murmurs?}  Hold  your  row,  mates,  hold  your  row. 

JACOB.  Come,  persuade  your  friends  to  go  away 
quietly.  I  ask  you  for  her  sake  to  go  away  quietly  ! 
I  beg  you  ! 

MARKS.  All  right,  sir;  so  we  will.  Mates,  you 
know  Miss  Fletcher  the  nurse.  {Murmurs  of  "  Yes, 
yes  ;  Miss  Fletcher,  yes,  we  all  know  her.  God  bless 
her!"  etc.)  Well,  she's  very  ill,  so  keep  quiet,  d'ye 
hear,  and  move  off.  Will  you  give  her  our  humble 
respects,  sir,  and  we  hope  she'll  soon  be  better?  Go 
on,  mates.  Quiet  now  !  (Exeunt  MARKS  and  men.) 


io6  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  v 

(JACOB  watches  them  off,  and  goes  to  side  door, 
opens  it,  calls,  takes  the  candle  and  looks 
in.) 

JACOB.  Mr.  Hoggard  !  (Pause.)  Mr.  Hoggard  ! 
He's  gone.  He's  safe.  ( Comes  back.) 

PETER  GREENACRE  shambles  in  at  back,  rather  more 
aged  and  disreputable  than  in  earlier  Acts. 

JACOB.     Well,  Peter,  what  is  it? 

GREENACRE.  Jim  Bowler's  in  a  dreadful  state, 
Muster  Fletcher.  Jim's  been  seeing  rats  and  snakes 
again,  and  using  sich  language  as  we  trembled  in  our 
shoes  to  listen  to  him.  What  a  terrible  thing  drink 
is,  Muster  Fletcher ! 

JACOB.     Well,  you  ought  to  know,  Peter. 

GREENACRE.  Yes,  I'm  a  brand  plucked  from  the 
burning,  I  am.  I'm  a  vessel  of  mercy,  but  I'm 
afeared  Jim's  nothing  but  a  vessel  of  wrath.  If  you 
could  come  round  and  talk  to  him,  he'd  soon  sign  the 
pledge  again. 

JACOB.  What's  the  good  of  his  signing  the 
pledge? 

GREENACRE.  Oh,  Jim's  allays  sober  for  a  week 
or  ten  days  after  he's  signed  the  pledge.  I  will  say 
that  for  Jim. 

JACOB.  I'll  come  and  see  him  to-morrow  morning. 
Good-night,  Peter. 

GREENACRE.  Good-night,  Muster  Fletcher.  La, 
Muster  Fletcher,  I  can't  abide  that  minister  as 


ACT  v  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  107 

they've  got  at  Bethel  now;  he  don't  refresh  my 
soul  a  bit.  I  feel  I've  got  a  aching  void,  Muster 
Fletcher,  as  he  don't  fill,  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have 
to  leave  Bethel  and  go  to  the  Church.  Church-folks 
ain't  stingy ;  there's  allays  plenty  of  coal  and  blankets 
and  pea-soup  for  them  as  goes  regular  to  Church  and 
attends  to  their  souls'  salvation.  I  shall  have  to  go 
to  Church,  I  shall. 

Enter  PRABBLE.     PETER  cringes  and  bows  to 
PRABBLE,  who  takes  no  notice  of  him. 

Ah,  you're  proud  and  mighty  now,  Muster 
Prabble  !  You're  puffed  up  amongst  the  princes  and 
rulers  of  the  earth  with  your  new  plate-glass  shop- 
front  !  But  p'raps  hereafter  it  '11  be  me  as  '11  be 
exalted,  and  you'll  be  brought  low.  But  I  won't 
despise  you  !  No,  I'll  forgive  you  !  {Exit  at  back.) 

JACOB.     Mr.  Prabble  ! 

PRABBLE.  I  daresay  you're  rather  surprised  to  see 
me,  Mr.  Fletcher. 

JACOB.  You  are  welcome  to  our  home,  such  as  it 
is.  Sit  down. 

PRABBLE  (sitting) .  Thank  you.  Of  course  you've 
heard  of  the  disgraceful  goings-on  of  that  scoundrel 
Hoggard?  Shocking,  ain't  it?  And  a  member  of 
a  Christian  congregation  too  ! 

JACOB.  I'm  afraid  that  doesn't  change  a  man's 
heart,  Mr.  Prabble. 

PRABBLE.     No,  no,  it  don't.    Well,  I  mustn't  stay. 


ro8  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  ACT  v 

You  know  we  haven't  been  very  comfortable  at  Bethel 
lately. 

JACOB.     No?     How's  that? 

PRABBLE.  Well,  the  fact  is  our  minister's  views 
on  predestination  are  wrong — altogether  wrong,  and 
so  he's  got  a  call  to  a  better  place — twenty  pounds  a 
year  more  ;  and  we've  had  a  meeting  to-night,  and  it's 
been  unanimously  resolved  to  ask  you  to  come  back 
to  be  our  minister. 

JACOB  (overjoyed}.  To  come  back,  did  you  say? 
You  want  me  to  come  back  to  my  old  ministry, 
my  old  home  ? 

PRABBLE.     Then  you'll  accept  it  ? 

JACOB.  Accept  it !  To  be  sure  I  will !  Tell  my 
people  that  though  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was,  I'm 
not  past  work  !  Come  back  to  them — come  back ! 
It  is  what  my  heart  longs  for  ! 

PRABBLE.  We  can  make  the  salary  eighty  pounds 
a  year.  We've  prospered  exceedingly  since  the  Wes- 
leyans  shut  up. 

JACOB.  I  don't  mind  about  the  money,  but — 
but — my  child,  my  child,  Mr.  Prabble — how  will  she 
be  received  by  the  congregation?  I  couldn't  come 
back  if  she  were  to  be  slighted  and  scorned — no  ! 

PRABBLE.  You  needn't  trouble  about  that.  We've 
talked  the  matter  over,  and  we  think,  as  Captain  Fan- 
shawe  is  dead  and  as  Miss  Fletcher  has  done  all  she 
could  to  make  up  for  the  past,  we  don't  see  that 
anybody  has  any  cause  to  remember  that.  And  you 


ACT  v  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  109 

may  tell  Miss  Fletcher  we  invite  her  to  come  back 
with  you. 

JACOB  (dumb  with  joy,  then  recovering  himself}. 
God  bless  you !  God  bless  you  !  I  will  tell  her — 
poor  girl — it  will  make  her  so  happy  ! 

(Shaking  hands  warmly?) 

PRABBLE.     How  is  Miss  Fletcher  ? 

JACOB.  She's  much  better  this  evening.  It's  the 
winter ;  when  the  warm  weather  comes  she'll  soon  be 
well — she'll  soon  be  well. 

PRABBLE  (rising).  Well,  then,  we  shall  expect 
you  back  amongst  us  on  Sunday  week — and — and 
(hesitating) — and  I  was  about  to  say  that — perhaps 
some  of  these  days  you  might  take  up  the  question 
of  the  Stores — it's  iniquitous,  and  it's  getting  worse 
and  worse.  I  don't  press  it,  you  know — but  think  it 
over.  Good-night,  Mr.  Fletcher — good-night. 

JACOB.  Good-night,  Mr.  Prabble.  Give  my  best 
thanks  to  my  congregation — my  best  thanks  ! 

(Exit  PRABBLE.) 

They  ask  her  to  come  back  amongst  them  !  They 
ask  my  strayed  sheep  to  come  back  to  the  fold  ! 
Hark  !  what's  that  ?  (  Goes  quickly  to  staircase-door, 
opens  it,  LETTY,  hectic,  enters  with  hair  down,  and 
cloak  thrown  over  night-dress?)  Letty  !  Why,  dear, 
you've  left  your  room  !  How's  this  ? 

LETTY.  I  feel  so  much  better — so  strange  and 
happy ;  I  don't  feel  a  bit  tired  !  (Staggering,  JACOB 
helps  her  to  sofa.}  I've  been  asleep,  and  I  dreamed 


i  io  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  v 

I  was  at  home  again  in  the  old  days,  and  George 
Kingsmill  came,  and  I  teased  him  as  I  used  to  do, 
but  only  for  a  little  while — for  I  had  grown  to  see 
how  good  and  manly  he  was ;  and  oh  father,  I  felt 
how  cruel  and  wicked  I  had  been  to  him  !  And 
look,  there  is  the  keepsake  he  sent  me  on  my  birth- 
day ten  years  ago,  when  I  was  only  fifteen  !  Oh,  was 
he  not  good  and  true  ! 

(Kissing  keepsake,  dashing  away  a  fear.) 

JACOB.  Yes,  dear.  ( Watching  her  anxiously — 
aside.)  She's  better  !  She's  quite  like  herself ! 

LETTY.  I  wonder  where  he  is.  I  wonder  how 
it  is  he  has  not  written.  I  should  like  to  see  him 
once  to  ask  him  to  forgive  me  for  all  the  wrong  I 
did  him. 

JACOB.  Well,  dear,  perhaps  you  may  some  day. 
And  you're  sure — you're  sure  you're  better? 

LETTY.  Yes,  dear  daddy — it's  quite  a  miraculous 
cure.  I  feel  so  healthy  that  I  could  dance  and  sing ; 
and  to-morrow  I  shall  astonish  you — I  shall  come 
down  and  help  Lydia  with  the  house-work,  and  make 
you  so  comfortable, — yes,  to-morrow ;  and  next  week 
I  shall  begin  my  nursing  again. 

(  With  great  feverish  excitement.) 

JACOB.  My  own !  And  do  you  think  you  are 
well  enough  to  hear  a  bit  of  good  news  ? 

LETTY.  Yes.  What  is  it  ?  I  can  bear  it.  I  tell  you 
I  am  quite — quite  well !  ( Coughing.)  I  am  not  going 
to  be  an  invalid  any  more.  Tell  me,  daddy,  what  is  it  ? 


ACT  v  SAINTS  AND   SINNERS  in 

JACOB.  Well,  dear,  they  have  asked  me  to  come 
back  to  my  old  ministry  and  to  our  old  home. 

LETTY.  Have  they?  I  am  so  glad  !  And  you 
will  go  of  course,  dear ;  and  it  won't  matter  for  me, 
because  I  can  easily  get  a  place  as  nurse,  as  soon — as 
soon  as  I  am  well.  ( Coughing.) 

JACOB.  Do  you  think  I  have  kept  you  by  me  all 
these  years,  and  that  I  would  part  from  you  now? 
No,  Letty,  my  people  have  not  asked  me  to  come 
back  alone  ;  they  have  asked  me  to  bring  my  daughter 
with  me  to  take  her  place  as  a  good  woman  amongst 
good  women. 

LETTY  (with  great  triumph).  They  have  done 
that?  Oh  father,  have  I  conquered  them?  Can 
they  forgive  me  ?  Have  I  lived  down  the  past  ? 

(The  outburst  of  joy  is  too  much  for  her,  she 
falls  fainting  in  JACOB'S  arms.) 

JACOB.  Letty,  what's  this?  Letty  dear,  speak  to 
me  !  Letty,  speak  ! 

LETTY  (very  faintly).  I — I'm  so  weak, — there's 
no  strength  in  me.  I  shall  never  be  well  again — 
never — never — never  ! 

JACOB.     Oh  my  darling,  don't  say  that 

LETTY  (starts  up,  hysterically).  They  have  for- 
given me — forgiven — father — I — I 

(Falls  back,  coughing  and  fainting.) 

JACOB.  My  dear  one,  you  are  very  ill —  No  one 
here — I  must  get  help  ! 

LETTY.     I — oh (Coughs  violently,  faints.) 


M2  SAINTS  AND  SINNERS  ACT  v 

JACOB.  Letty — oh,  she's  dying  !  She's  dying  ! 
Lydia  !  Help  !  Help  !  Lydia  !  She's  dying  !  Ah, 
no,  no — spare  her — do  not  rob  me  of  her  these  last 
few  years —  Her  life  !  Her  life  !  Letty,  look  up, 
my  dear —  Letty  !  Help  !  Help  !  Will  no  one 
come? 

Knock  at  door.  JACOB  goes  to  it,  opens  it  quickly. 
GEORGE  KINGSMILL  enters,  rough-bearded,  bronzed, 
and  roughly-dressed,  giving  an  impression  of  having 
been  some  years  in  the  Colonies. 

GEORGE.     Mr.  Fletcher  ! 

JACOB.  George !  (Shakes  hands.)  Look !  She's 
dying  !  Stay  by  her  side  a  moment,  while  I  go  for 
Doctor  Marsden.  (Exit.) 

GEORGE  (goes  to  LETTY,  bends  over  her) .  Letty  ! 
Letty  !  I've  come  all  across  the  world  only  to  see 
your  face  !  Letty — one  word  !  My  own — I've  loved 
you  through  all — I  shall  love  you  to  the  end  !  I 
want  to  take  you  back  to  my  home  to  be  my  wife  ! 
Oh,  she  doesn't  hear  me  !  Letty,  I'm  rich  !  I've 
been  working  all  these  years  for  you  !  You're  free  ! 
The  past  is  dead  and  buried  !  You  shall  not  die  ! 
Oh  God,  it's  cruel  to  kill  her  now  !  Is  she  not  mine  ? 
Have  I  not  won  her  by  all  my  long  years  of  toil  and 
agony  of  love  ?  Letty  !  Look  up  !  Speak  to  me ! 

LETTY  (looking  up,  very  faintly,  shows  great  sur- 
prise and  weakness).  Ah!  You!  George!  I  knew 
you  would  come,  but —  (Looks  round.)  Where  are 


ACT  v  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  113 

we  ?  Have  I  died  ?  and  have  you  come  to  me  after 
death  ? 

GEORGE.  No,  on  this  side  death !  Letty,  I 
want  you  to  live  —  I  must  have  you  live  !  All 
these  years  I've  been  working  and  waiting  for  this 
moment !  I've  dwelt  upon  it,  and  lived  upon  it — out 
there,  all  through  the  long  cold  nights,  I've  had  but 
one  hope,  that  you  would  grow  to  love  me,  and 
come  to  share  my  home.  Letty,  it's  waiting  for  you 
there,  your  home.  Oh,  don't  send  me  back  alone  ! 
Tell  me  you  will  come  with  me — Letty,  do  you  hear 
me — do  you  know  me? 

LETTY.  Yes,  I  know  you  now,  George.  I  have 
so  much  to  tell  you.  Look,  here  is  the  keepsake  you 
gave  me  on  my  birthday,  years  ago 

GEORGE.  And  here  is  the  necklace  you  sent  me 
when — when  you  promised 

LETTY.  When  I  promised  to  be  your  wife.  Ah, 
it  is  all  so  long  ago — you  must  not  grieve — I  thought, 
an  hour  ago,  I  was  going  to  be  strong  and  well  again 
— but  now  I  know — this  is  the  end 

GEORGE.  Oh,  live  a  little  while — a  few  months — 
a  few  days  !  Live  just  long  enough  to  let  me  grow 
sure  that  you  love  me — live  to  tell  me  so ! 

LETTY.  You  know  I  love  you — with  all  my  heart. 
(He  clasps  her.)  Oh,  you  are  so  strong  with  life,  and 
I  am  so  faint  and  weak  ! 

GEORGE.  God,  what  use  is  my  strength  to  me? 
Give  it  to  her !  Oh,  my  own,  my  dearest,  if  I 

i 


U4  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  ACT  v 

could  but  feed  you  with  my  life — if  I  could  make 
you  strong  again  ! 

LETTY  (quietly).  It's  better  as  it  is.  I  don't  mind 
dying.  George,  where  are  you?  Can  you  forgive  me? 

GEORGE.  Forgive  you?  Oh  Letty,  I  loved  you 
so  that  I  never  thought  of  that  ! 

LETTY  (takes  his  hand,  kisses  if).  And  I  was  so 
blind  and  thoughtless — I  did  not  know  you  then. 
Ah,  but  I  know  you  now  !  Don't  leave  me  !  Where 
is  father?  George,  you'll  take  care  of  him  when  I'm 
gone,  won't  you  ? 

JACOB  enters,  comes  up  behind  sofa. 

You  mustn't  let  him  fret,  and  you  must  talk  to  him 
about  me — when  I'm  gone  he'll  love  to  talk  about 
me.  Yes,  he'll  lose  his  daughter,  but  you  will  be  a 
son  to  him,  won't  you? 

JACOB  (coming  forward).  Letty — oh  must  it  be — 
must  it  be  ? 

LETTY.  Where  are  you,  father?  Give  me  your 
hand.  George,  give  me  yours.  There,  now,  I'm 
quite  happy.  (JACOB  bursts  into  tears.)  Hush  !  you 
mustn't  cry.  Oh,  I  should  like  to  live  a  little  while 
for  your  sakes,  but  for  myself  I  don't  mind  at  all. 
When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  used  to  be  so  frightened  of 
death — now  it  seems  so  easy — and  quite  pleasant. 
This  doesn't  seem  like  death — I  only  feel  a  little  tired 

— I  want  to  go  to  sleep — I — I — I 

(Drops  back  fainting.) 


ACT  v  SAINTS   AND   SINNERS  115 

JACOB.  Letty,  stay  with  me — stay  with  me  just  a 
little  while,  till  I  can  come  this  journey  with  you. 
It's  only  for  a  little  while — it  isn't  worth  saying 
"  good-bye." 

LETTY.  Good-bye  for  a  little  while,  then.  How 
dark  it's  getting  !  Father — he'll  take  my  place  when 

I'm   gone (Breaks   off  suddenly,  looks   round 

wildly,  jumps  up  violently  with  a  shriek?) — Yes  !  I 
have  sinned,  but  can  you  never  forgive  me?  I  have 
tried  so  hard  to  live  it  down —  Oh  you  Christians, 
will  you  never  learn  to  forgive  ? 

(  Wildly  staring?) 

JACOB.  Letty,  Letty — my  dear,  you  have  lived  it 
down — no  soul  dare  speak  a  word  against  you. 

LETTY  (quieting,  stares  round  for  some  seconds, 
smiles').  Eh?  What  is  it?  Is  that  you,  father? 
Yes,  I  have  lived  it  down,  haven't  I?  They  forgive 
me  !  (Drops  back,  looks  up  smiling.')  I'm  so  tired, 
daddy — so  tired (Dies.) 

CURTAIN. 


APPENDIX 


RELIGION  AND  THE   STAGE 

(Reprinted  from  The  Nineteenth  Century  review  for  January 
1885  by  the  kind  permission  of  Mr.  James  Knowles.) 

Je  sais  bien  que,  pour  reponse,  ces  messieurs  tichent  d'insinuer 
que  ce  n'est  point  au  th6atre  a  parler  de  ces  matieres ;  mais  je  leur 
demande,  avec  leur  permission,  sur  quoi  ils  fondent  cette  belle 
maxime. — MOLI&RE,  Preface  to  the  Tartuffe. 

A  RECENT  production  at  a  London  theatre  has  ob- 
tained a  greater  success  perhaps  than  it  merits,  because 
it  has  incidentally  raised  the  question  of  how  far  it  is 
lawful  or  expedient  for  a  modern  playwright  to  touch 
religious  questions  and  to  put  modern  English  religious 
life  upon  the  stage. 

Upon  any  question  of  dramatic  craftsmanship,  literary 
skill,  or  originality  of  plot,  a  playwright  will  do  well  to 
abide  by  the  wholesome  rule  that  forbids  an  artist  to 
speak  of  his  own  work  or  to  question  any  verdict  that 
may  be  passed  upon  it.  It  is  true  that  this  rule  at  times 
presses  somewhat  severely  upon  a  dramatic  author,  inas- 
much as,  while  all  other  artists  are  judged  by  their  own 
performances,  a  playwright  is  judged  partly  by  the  per- 
formances of  others,  and  is  praised  or  blamed  not  merely 


u8  APPENDIX 

for  what  he  has  done  or  misdone  for  himself,  but  for 
what  the  management,  the  actors,  the  scene-painters, 
and  the  carpenters  have  done  or  misdone  for  him. 
Thus  Shakespeare  himself  would  hardly  escape  severe 
condemnation  as  a  sorry  bungler  in  stagecraft,  were  he 
an  unknown  playwright  and  his  masterpieces  had  now 
to  be  submitted  to  the  public  for  the  first  time  at  an 
afternoon  performance  with  stock-scenery  and  slovenly 
stage-management. 

The  curiously  divergent  values  and  meanings  that  a 
public  representation  may  attach  to  a  play  or  to  certain 
portions  of  a  play  from  what  the  author  attaches  to  them, 
or  that  different  audiences  may  attach  to  the  same  play, 
or  that  the  same  spectator  may  attach  to  the  same  play 
seen  under  fresh  conditions  and  with  new  actors,  these 
are  among  the  hundred  risks  inseparable  from  the  play- 
wright's calling.  And  it  is  useless  —  especially  would  it 
ill  become  one  who  has  been  unusually  fortunate  in  the 
interpretation  and  discussion  of  his  work — to  cavil  at 
those  conditions  and  limitations  of  his  art  which  are  at 
present  unavoidable  and  irremediable.  All  success  or 
failure  that  may  be  due  to  adequate  and  skilful,  or 
inadequate  and  unskilful,  production  and  interpretation, 
all  curious  variances  of  critical  and  public  judgment  upon 
technical  questions,  are  best  met  with  the  discreet  silence 
of  a  quiet  smile,  and  may  be  allowed  to  pass  on  without 
comment  to  play  their  momentary  little  part  in  the 
stupendous  comedy  of  human  affairs,  thence  to  be  dis- 
missed into  forgetfulness.  And  when  one  remembers 
how  little  difference  there  is  between  what  the  public 
acclaims  as  a  good  play  and  condemns  as  a  bad  one — 
that  is,  how  little  difference  there  is  between  the  two 
classes  in  the  higher  qualities  of  literature  and  character- 
painting  and  in  illumination  of  the  human  heart — when 
one  considers  how  comparatively  little  harm  would  be 
done  to  English  literature  and  art  if  every  acting-play 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  115 

since  Sheridan  and  Goldsmith  were  irrecoverably  lost 
to-morrow,  one  may  well  hesitate  to  vex  the  public  ear 
with  the  discussion  of  any  matter  appertaining  to  modern 
dramatic  work. 

But  when  a  playwright  is  challenged  by  a  part  of  a 
first-night  audience  as  to  his  right  to  depict  any  section 
of  the  community,  or  rather  as  to  his  right  to  depict  them 
truthfully  and  make  them  use  the  language  that  is 
natural  to  them ;  when  he  is  counselled  and  counter- 
counselled  upon  the  expediency  of  altering  what  is 
distinctive  and  what  he  conceives  to  be  faithful  and  life- 
like in  his  portraiture — in  such  a  case  he  may  perhaps 
be  permitted  a  word  of  apology  and  explanation  upon 
the  ground  that,  small  and  unimportant  as  the  individual 
case  may  be,  and  not  in  itself  worth  a  moment's  con- 
sideration, yet,  seeing  that  the  meanest  matters  may 
contain  the  widest  issues,  the  entire  question  of  the  future 
development  of  the  English  drama  and  its  right  to  press 
on  and  possess  itself  of  the  whole  of  human  life,  is  more 
or  less  raised  when  any  veto  is  placed,  or  sought  to  be 
placed,  upon  the  dramatist's  perfect  freedom  of  choice  of 
subject,  persons,  place,  and  mode  of  treatment.  The 
only  restriction  that  should  be  placed  upon  him  is  that 
he  shall  not  offend  against  the  recognised  code  of  social 
decency,  and  here  we  have  a  sufficient  safeguard  in  the 
censorship  and  the  "  common  sense  of  most." 

The  question  has  an  aspect  of  expediency  that  it  may 
be  well  to  deal  with  first.  Obviously,  as  a  matter  of 
expediency  and  worldly  prudence,  a  dramatist  will  do 
wisely  to  avoid  giving  offence  to  the  prejudices  and 
susceptibilities  of  any  great  portion  of  his  possible 
audiences.  Indeed,  so  perfectly  has  this  rule  been  under- 
stood upon  the  recent  English  stage,  so  eager  have  we 
been  to  exclude  everything  that  might  be  offensive  or 
tedious  or  incomprehensible  to  any  possible  spectator, 
that  by  a  process  of  continual  exhaustion  and  humble 


120  APPENDIX 

deference  to  everybody's  prejudices  we  have  banished 
from  the  stage  all  treatment  of  grave  subjects  but  what 
is  commonplace  and  cursory  and  conventional.  The 
course  of  the  drama  has  been  diverted  and  hopelessly 
cut  off  from  the  main  current  of  modern  intellectual  life. 
While  the  companion  arts — painting,  poetry,  and  music 
— are  allowed  to  present  every  aspect  of  human  life,  on 
the  stage  only  the  narrow,  ordinary,  convenient,  respect- 
able, superficial  contemplation  and  presentation  of  human 
affairs  is  allowed.  Though  off  the  stage  the  gravest 
matters  have  been  in  heated  hourly  prominence,  on  the 
stage  nothing  of  much  greater  importance  has  been 
bruited  than  how  a  tradesman's  family  may  prepare 
itself  for  alliance  with  the  aristocracy.  And  such  trades- 
men !  And  such  aristocrats  ! 

Nothing  could  better  show  the  impotence  and  poverty 
of  the  modern  English  drama  than  the  account  it  has 
rendered  of  modern  English  business-life ;  nothing  could 
better  show  how  strangely  far  we  are  from  sincerity  and 
faithful  insight  in  character-drawing,  how  fond  the  public 
is  of  what  is  superficial  and  conventional,  than  the  type 
of  business-man  that  has  been  most  popular  on  the  stage 
in  recent  years.  It  will  be  allowed  that  if  Englishmen 
have  been  in  earnest  about  anything  the  last  fifty  years, 
they  have  been  in  earnest  about  money-making  and  com- 
merce. Of  gods  and  saints,  and  heroes  and  martyrs, 
and  kings,  modern  English  life  has  not  been  quite  so 
prolific  as  an  eager  playwright  might  wish,  and  in  their 
rarity  or  absence  from  his  daily  sphere  he  may  be  forgiven 
if  he  fails  when  he  tries  his  unaccustomed  hand  upon 
their  portraiture.  But — Heaven  and  Free  Trade  be 
praised ! — there  has  been  no  dearth  of  business-men  in 
England  this  generation.  No  playwright  can  excuse 
himself  on  the  plea  of  want  of  models  to  study  and  paint 
from.  Surely,  if  sincerity  and  truth  may  be  reasonably 
demanded  from  the  drama  in  any  one  particular,  it  is  in 


RELIGION  AND  THE   STAGE  121 

the  handling  of  modern  business-life.  Yet  upon  turning 
to  the  stage  what  do  we  find?  Of  course  there  is  no 
lack  of  business-men  in  our  modern  plays ;  rather,  of 
one  certain  type  of  business-man,  hereafter  to  be  ex- 
amined, there  is  an  inordinate  profusion.  Indeed,  this 
particular  individual,  under  various  aliases  and  constantly 
changing  his  trade,  may  be  said  in  one  sense  to  have 
been  the  great  prop  and  mainstay  of  English  comedy  for 
some  twenty  years  past.  But  so  far  as  one  can  readily 
remember,  the  only  serious  attempt  to  portray  a  modern 
English  man  of  business  is  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Sydney 
Grundy's  Mammon.  Ordinarily  the  man  of  business  is 
simply  a  peg  to  hang  jokes  upon.  He  invariably  drops 
his  H's  and  puts  in  superfluous  aspirates.  He  is  ever- 
lastingly making  blunders  upon  his  introduction  into 
what  passes  upon  the  stage  for  polite  society.  And 
these  blunders  are  so  dwelt  upon  and  exaggerated  that 
any  pit  or  gallery-spectator  can  instantly  detect  them 
and  pride  himself  upon  his  superior  breeding  to  the 
person  who  makes  them,  who  is  yet  assumed  to  be  moving 
in  a  better  position,  and  to  have  better  opportunities 
for  learning  good  manners,  than  the  pit  or  gallery 
spectator.  And  when  the  good-hearted  tradesman  makes 
these  blunders,  the  aristocratic  people  on  the  stage  at 
once  call  attention  to  them,  and  correct  them  with  an 
utter  absence  not  merely  of  the  forms  but  of  the  spirit  of 
good  breeding.  And  this  type  of  business-man  has  made 
the  fortune  of  many  modern  comedies.  Now  it  is  not  to 
be  denied  that  many  retired  tradesmen  do  drop  their  H's 
and  commit  social  blunders ;  and  these  apparently  are 
the  especial  traits  of  character  that  are  most  acceptable 
to  an  English  audience  and  most  easily  make  it  laugh. 
But  the  want  of  all  sincerity  and  searchingness  in  the 
portrait  must  be  apparent  to  any  intelligent  person  who 
will  take  the  trouble  to  read  a  modern  comedy  where  an 
English  tradesman  is  depicted,  and  then  compare  it  with 


122  APPENDIX 

the  average  English  tradesman  who  can  be  met  with 
behind  any  counter  in  town  or  country.  And  a  playwright 
sitting  down  to  write  the  part  of  an  English  man  of 
business  does  not  first  consider  how  he  can  faithfully 
portray  such  and  such  an  individual,  and  through  him 
the  heart  and  meaning  of  English  commercial  life,  but 
how  he  can  most  readily  make  an  average  audience  laugh 
at  outrageous  verbal  distortions  or  pronounced  social  blun- 
ders. The  same  want  of  truthfulness  will  be  found  upon 
comparing  that  curiously  unreal  nondescript,  the  rustic 
of  the  London  stage,  with  any  living  English  peasant. 

Now,  while  the  stage  remains  so  swaddled  in  petti- 
ness and  superficiality,  the  playwright  who  wishes  to  be 
successful  will  indulge  the  public  and  continue  to 
manufacture  for  them  their  pet  conventional  stage-types. 
Out  of  the  thousand  spectators  that  nightly  watch  a  play 
it  may  be  safely  assumed  that  nine  hundred  will  be 
struck  by  some  outward,  obvious,  unmeaning  peculiarity 
of  speech  or  manner  rather  than  by  any  inward  signifi- 
cant truth  or  suggestion  of  character.  And  the  whole 
scheme  and  aim  of  dramatic  art  in  this  country  being  to 
attract  the  multitude,  and  no  existence  being  possible 
to  it  except  upon  this  footing,  every  play  is  framed  upon 
the  principle  of  immediately  flattering  and  satisfying, 
not  the  one  student  of  character  and  lover  of  literature, 
but  the  ninety-and-nine  pleasure-seekers  and  sight-seers. 
And  these  pleasure-seekers  have  also  a  few  tough  British 
prejudices  which  the  judicious  playwright  must  beware 
of  offending.  The  two  chief  subjects  which  are  by 
common  consent  supposed  to  be  most  difficult  of  stage- 
treatment  are  religion  and  politics,  because  these  are 
the  subjects  upon  which  counter  opinions  are  most  rife 
and  popular  feelings  most  easily  raised. 

As  regards  politics,  they  scarcely  touch  the  moral  or 
emotional  nature  of  man  at  all.  Surely  the  present 
disposition  of  political  parties  in  this  country,  and  the 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  123 

present  aims  of  statesmanship  on  either  side,  do  not  invite 
any  attention  from  a  serious  dramatist.  They  would 
make  a  very  worthless  theme  for  any  dramatic  work 
except  a  farce.  And  the  modern  playwright  need  not 
give  himself  a  moment's  uneasiness  because  he  finds 
himself  debarred  from  treating  English  political  life 
except  in  the  spirit  of  farce,  or  in  that  bland  and  sugary 
way  which,  complimenting  both  sides  upon  being  alike 
right,  equally  conveys  that  there  is  no  question  of 
human  interest  in  the  struggle  between  them.  But 
suppose  it  were  found  that  upon  any  matter  of  deep 
concern  the  two  parties  were  divided ;  suppose  it  were 
found  that  political  bias  on  the  one  side  corrupted,  and 
on  the  other  side  sustained  human  nature,  then  who 
could  deny  the  dramatist  the  right  of  enforcing  so  much 
upon  the  stage?  With  religion  the  case  is  far  different 
from  politics,  though  the  same  motives  of  expediency 
have  banished  from  the  modern  stage  all  treatment  of  it 
that  is  not  purely  conventional  and  superficial.1 

The  present  attitude  of  religious  persons  towards  the 
stage  is  a  somewhat  curious  one.  For  some  two 
hundred  years  religious  opinion  in  England  has  been 
more  or  less  antagonistic  to  the  theatre.  But  gradually 
the  far-seeing  and  more  liberal-minded  teachers  in  the 
different  sects  have  become  alive  to  the  fact  that  the 
theatre  is  immensely  popular,  and  must  be  tolerated  and 
reckoned  with.  It  threatens  to  become  a  powerful 
influence  in  the  life  of  the  nation.  And  religious  persons 
are  also  fast  discovering  that,  in  the  huge  sempiternal 
dullness  and  mechanical  routine  of  English  life,  theatre- 

1 1  would  like  to  enlarge  this  paragraph,  and  so  far  change  its 
drift  as  to  claim  for  the  stage  the  sanfe  right  to  deal  searchingly 
and  truthfully  with  politics  as  with  religion.  To-day  our  modern 
drama  should  lay  hands  upon  every  province  of  human  life  and 
thought,  and  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  sovereign  sway  and 
masterdom  over  the  whole  realm,  zsth  April  1891. 


124 


APPENDIX 


going  is  not  an  unpleasant  way  of  spending  the  evening. 
Like  Dame  Purecraft  in  the  matter  of  eating  pig,  they 
would  like  to  have  it  made  as  lawful  as  possible.  So 
they  come  timorously,  with  the  old  notion  still  clinging 
to  them  that  they  are  in  "  the  tents  of  the  wicked."  How 
welcome  to  weak  consciences  have  been  the  various 
entertainments  that,  under  some  convenient  name  or 
cloak,  have  afforded  to  religious  persons  a  satisfaction  of 
the  ineradicable  dramatic  instinct,  and  saved  them  the 
sin  of  going  to  a  theatre  !  How  ludicrous  is  the  spectacle 
of  religion,  shivering  on  the  brink  of  Shakespeare  at  the 
Lyceum,  and  turning  away  to  regale  itself  at  the  Christy 
Minstrels  or  the  Chamber  of  Horrors !  What  a  blank 
and  stupefying  denial  of  all  the  genial  humane  qualities 
of  our  nature  is  implied  in  the  recent  wholesale  con- 
demnation of  the  theatre  by  the  great  Boanerges  of  the 
Baptists !  But  the  truth  is  that  religious  persons,  after 
having  vilified  the  theatre  for  two  centuries,  are  fast 
coming  back  to  it.  Not  all  Mr.  Spurgeon's  shouting  to 
his  flock  to  stay  and  batten  in  his  sheep-pens  on  the 
dismal  moor  of  hyper-Calvinism  will  long  keep  them  from 
straggling  down  to  the  green  pastures  and  broad  waters 
of  the  nation's  intellectual  life. 

There  is,  then,  in  every  audience  at  all  our  leading 
theatres,  except  perhaps  those  that  are  devoted  to  broad 
farcical  comedy  and  burlesque,  a  certain  proportion  of 
religious  persons  who  come  timidly  to  the  theatre  with 
a  vague  sense  of  wrong-doing,  and  are  shocked  if  there 
is  any  mention  of  religious  subjects.  Their  views  of 
life  are  such,  that  there  is  no  general  reconciliation 
possible  between  the  two  ideas  of  religion  and  the 
theatre,  and  so  they  wish  to  keep  them  utterly  apart,  in 
the  same  way  that  many  worthy  people  find  it  convenient  to 
keep  their  science  in  a  separate  mental  compartment  from 
their  religion,  from  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  if  they 
once  get  face  to  face  one  of  them  will  destroy  the  other. 


RELIGION  AND   THE   STAGE  125 

In  every  audience  there  is  a  much  larger  proportion 
of  simply  indifferent  persons,  who  would  be  the  first  to 
disclaim  any  particular  reverence  for  any  doctrine  or 
precept  of  religion  whatsoever,  yet  who  pay  the  ordinary 
Englishman's  ear  and  lip  reverence  to  the  current  creed. 
And  these  also  feel  uneasy  if  religion  is  broached  on  the 
stage,  because,  having  conveniently  dispensed  with  it  to 
a  great  extent  in  regulating  their  everyday  lives,  they 
think  it  may  be  very  well  allowed  to  remain  in  its  present 
condition  of  honoured  and  respectable  superannuation, 
as  an  affair  of  Sundays,  and  Parsons,  and  churches,  and 
chapels. 

Strange  Englishmen !  so  cunning  in  the  art  of  self- 
deception  !  Has,  then,  this  religion  of  yours  grown  so 
valetudinarian  that  it  can  no  longer  take  the  robust 
exercise  of  out-of-door  life?  that  you  must  shelter  it  from 
the  keen  east  winds  of  science,  and  the  daily  uphill 
trudge  of  business,  and  the  glow  and  bustle  of  healthy 
amusement  ?  that  you  must  deny  it  all  the  vigour  and 
movement  of  everyday  life,  and  only  take  it  out  for  a 
little  very  gentle  exercise  once  or  twice  on  Sundays? 
Well,  wrap  it  up  then,  keep  it  warm!  It's  in  a  "parlous 
state"  truly;  and,  if  the  worst  should  happen,  Heaven 
send  us  a  good,  serviceable,  sound-winded,  work-a-day 
religion  to  take  its  place. 

Speaking  generally,  we  may  say  that  from  old-accus- 
tomed prejudice,  whose  grounds  they  have  never  taken 
the  trouble  to  examine,  ordinary  playgoers  have  a  haunt- 
ing feeling  of  the  impropriety  of  the  theatre  as  a  place 
for  even  hinting  that  there  is  in  the  English  nation  to- 
day any  such  thing  as  religion  at  all.  The  idea  of 
human  life  as  being  about  six-sevenths  secular  and  one- 
seventh  sacred  keeps  possession  of  them,  and  they  do 
not  wish  to  have  this  convenient  fiction  disturbed  or 
examined.  Then,  too,  the  dramatic  faculty  is  so  little 
developed  in  a  general  audience,  there  is  so  little 


126  APPENDIX 

knowledge  and  appreciation  of  character,  that  they 
cannot  discriminate  between  an  author  speaking  in 
proprid  persond  and  his  allowing  his  personages  to  speak 
whatever  is  natural  and  becoming  to  them.  How  little 
essential  reverence  of  heart  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
average  play-goer's  dislike  of  the  mention  of  religion 
upon  the  stage  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  plays 
that  are  implicitly  choke-full  of  the  deathfullest  sort  of 
Atheism,  the  denial  of  the  divinity  of  man,  are  allowed  to 
pass  without  protest,  and  run  their  hundreds  of  nights. 

As  a  matter  of  expediency,  then,  it  may  be  freely 
conceded  that  the  playwright  is  wise  in  his  day  and 
generation  not  to  meddle  with  religious  matters,  but  to 
accept  the  arbitrary  and  conventional  division  of  human 
nature  into  secular  and  sacred,  and  to  ply  his  trade 
wholly  in  the  secular  domain,  in  apparent  ignorance  of 
whether  there  is  anything  sacred  or  no  in  man's  nature, 
and  whether  Englishmen  have  a  religion  to-day,  and 
whether  it  has  any  influence  upon  their  character.  Neither 
must  the  sadly  comic  spectacle  of  our  two  hundred  sects 
— all  of  them  right  and  all  of  them  wrong — tempt  him  to 
a  smile  or  a  sigh,  though  one  would  fancy  that  the  waste- 
ful joke  of  starting  two  hundred  agencies  to  the  same 
end,  the  existence  of  each  one  implying  the  uselessness 
of  the  other  one  hundred  and  ninety-nine,  must  at  last 
become  apparent  to  the  originators  of  it.  It  is  quite 
certain,  however,  that  the  existence  of  such  a  restriction 
upon  the  dramatist  forbids  the  hope  of  the  English 
drama  ever  reaching  forward  to  be  a  great  art,  and  con- 
demns it  to  remain  as  it  is,  the  plaything  of  the  populace, 
a  thing  of  convention  and  pettiness  and  compromise.  It 
is  useless  to  upbraid  modern  playwrights  for  not  pro- 
ducing great  plays  when  in  so  small  a  matter  as  the 
putting  upon  the  stage  of  so  common  a  type  of  modern 
English  life  as  a  middle  class  tradesman,  one  is  not 
allowed  to  paint  him  thoroughly,  according  to  one's  poor 


RELIGION   AND   THE   STAGE  127 

judgment,  in  a  faithful  searching  way,  and  giving,  so  far 
as  the  exigencies  of  dramatic  art  allow,  a  truthful  picture 
of  the  man  and  his  environment,  and  of  the  man  moulded 
or  modified  by  his  environment.  If  a  dramatist  must 
not  faithfully  paint  his  brother  British  shopkeeper  whom 
he  has  seen,  how  shall  he  be  trusted  to  faithfully  paint 
heroes  and  saints  and  demigods  and  other  "  tremendous 
personages  "  whom  he  has  not  seen  ?  The  drama  claims 
for  its  province  the  whole  heart  and  nature  and  soul  and 
passions  of  man ;  and  so  far  as  religion  has  to  do  with 
these,  so  far  is  the  dramatist  within  his  right  in  noting 
the  scope  and  influence  of  religion  upon  the  character  he 
has  to  portray.  The  whole  teaching  of  modern  psychology, 
the  conception  of  human  character  as  a  natural  production 
arising  from  the  action  of  the  various  surrounding  agencies 
upon  the  individual  man  and  his  ancestors  through 
countless  ages  and  the  reactions  resulting  therefrom : 
this  doctrine  forbids  the  dramatist  to  accept  any  reserva- 
tion of  a  certain  plot  or  parcel  of  a  man's  nature  which 
must  be  screened  off  and  veiled  and  assumed  to  be  non- 
existent before  the  analysis  of  the  character  can  be  made. 
Every  character  is  woven  all  of  a  piece ;  if  some  threads 
are  taken  out,  the  garment  is  mutilated  and  falls  to  bits. 
The  whole  of  the  nature  of  man  is  sacred  to  the 
dramatist,  as  the  whole  of  the  body  of  man  is  sacred  to 
the  physician.  One  part  is  not  more  sacred  than 
another.  The  folly,  the  hate,  and  meanness,  and  envy, 
and  greed,  and  lust  of  human  kind  are  just  as  sacred  in 
this  sense  as  the  higher  and  nobler  qualities,  and  are 
treasured  with  the  same  care.  One  might  as  well 
dictate  to  a  surgeon  that  in  his  survey  of  the  human  body 
he  must  omit  to  take  note  of  the  presence  of  such  and 
such  an  organ  and  its  influence  upon  the  rest  of  the 
body — say  the  heart — because  of  some  sacred  mystery 
attaching  to  it,  as  to  dictate  to  a  dramatist  that  he  shall 
not  be  allowed  in  his  study  of  a  certain  character  to  mark, 


128  APPENDIX 

if  necessary,  the  shaping  and  leavening  of  the  whole 
of  that  character  by  the  religious  milieu  in  which  it  has 
been  produced.  It  is  for  those  who  would  deny  to  the 
dramatist  the  right  to  depict  religious  life  upon  the  stage, 
to  show  either  that  religion  has  become  a  quite  unessen- 
tial and  useless  portion  of  human  life,  and  is  effete  and 
defunct,  and  has  no  bearing  upon  character  in  England 
to-day,  in  which  case  the  playwright  can  afford  to  treat 
it  as  a  naturalist  does  an  organ  that  has  lapsed  into  a 
rudimentary  state,  or  it  is  for  them  to  show  why  religion 
should  not  occupy  the  same  part  in  the  dramatist's 
scheme  and  view  of  human  life  as  it  is  supposed  to  do 
in  the  outer  world  around  him — shall  we  say  a  seventh? 

So  far  as  the  matter  is  part  of  the  general  compromise 
and  toleration  upon  religious  matters  without  which 
social  life  would  be  rendered  grievously  uncomfortable, 
it  would  doubtless  be  unwise  to  try  to  disturb  the  present 
equanimity  and  to  arouse  bitter  passions  that  are  now 
disarmed  or  slumbering.  And  also  one  would  not 
willingly  shock  the  sincere  feeling  of  any  worshipper, 
were  it  even  of  the  most  degraded  and  brutal  fetish. 
There  is  a  small  enough  stock  of  reverence  in  England 
to-day ;  one  may  well  be  content  to  endure  a  little  of  it 
wrongly  directed  and  towards  unworthy  things. 

But  the  matter  is  also  part  of  the  question  of  whether 
our  drama  shall  ever  rise  to  the  dignity  of  its  mission 
and  exercise  its  right  to  portray  and  interpret  and 
faithfully  reflect  the  main  and  vital  features  of  our 
national  life ;  and  upon  this  point  the  humblest  writer 
for  the  stage  has  a  right  to  be  jealous  and  alert,  and  to 
see  that  his  art  is  not  rendered  weak  and  lifeless,  and  its 
sustenance  given  to  feed  the  beggarly  array  of  decrepit 
prejudices  that  totter  about  this  breathing  world  and  suck 
into  their  numb  and  withered  anatomies  the  nourishment 
that  should  go  to  build  up  a  healthy  body  of  public  opinion. 

Inasmuch  as  religion  is  a  matter  of  controversy  and 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  129 

doctrine,  the  dramatist  may  be  content  to  leave  it  in  the 
clouds  where  the  arguments  and  sophistries  of  divines 
have  floated  it.  In  this  respect  the  relation  of  art  towards 
religion  is  fixed  in  Tennyson's  memorable  lines — 

I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed, 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl ; 

I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all. 

In  no  case  could  it  be  profitable  for  the  stage  to  become 
the  backer  or  antagonist  of  any  doctrine  or  creed.  But 
inasmuch  as  religion  is  also  a  matter  of  conduct  and 
practice  and  character,  the  drama  has  every  right  to  take 
it  for  part  of  its  subject-matter. 

And  before  quite  resigning  ourselves  to  the  dominion 
of  the  popular  prejudice,  which  holds  that  the  dramatist 
should  blink  the  question  of  man's  spiritual  nature  and 
beliefs,  it  may  be  as  well  to  glance  at  the  accepted 
relations  of  religion  and  the  drama  during  the  times  of 
the  greatest  dramatic  activity  and  creation.  The  Greek 
tragedians  made  unsparing  use  of  their  country's  religion, 
and  wove  it  into  their  plays.  In  masterful  and  unques- 
tioned sway  over  the  destiny  of  man  they  reigned 
coequal  with  the  gods,  and  usurped  omnipotence  in  their 
dealings  with  the  creatures  of  their  hands.  Again,  all 
through  our  own  Elizabethan  writers  there  is  the  freest 
handling  of  religious  matters  whenever  these  come  within 
the  sweep  of  their  pen.  One  has  only  to  imagine  the 
whole  batch  of  dramatists  of  that  era  set  to  write  a  play 
that  should  be  successful  upon  our  modern  English  stage 
if  produced  for  the  first  time  to-day,  to  see  how  much 
the  temper  and  state  of  preparation  of  the  audience,  and 
the  knowledge  of  the  dramatist  that  what  he  writes  will 
be  accepted  seriously  and  in  good  faith,  have  to  do  with 
the  production  of  great  plays.  We  will  take  the  three 
greatest  and  most  representative  names  of  that  age, 


1 3o  APPENDIX 

Marlowe,  Shakespeare,  and  Ben  Jonson,  and  ask  how 
they  dealt  with  religious  matters.  The  comparison  is 
very  interesting,  as  it  also  incidentally  discovers  the 
different  bent  of  each  genius  and  the  different  texture  of 
his  mind.  The  essential  reverence  of  these  three  writers 
will  scarcely  be  questioned,  if  reverence  is  to  be  reckoned 
by  the  wholesomeness  of  the  feelings  rather  than  by  the 
squeamishness  of  the  ears.  Though  even  in  the  matter 
of  words  it  may  be  asked  whether  the  clean  and  healthy 
outspokenness  of  some  of  the  Elizabethan  writers  is  not 
more  reverent  of  everything  worth  reverence  than  the 
putrid  leer  and  imbecile  suggestiveness  of  some  music- 
hall  songs  that  have  been  imported  into  the  modern 
theatre. 

To  begin  with  Christopher  Marlowe,  "  Son  first-born 
of  the  morning,  sovereign  star ! "  In  Marlowe  there  is 
none  of  the  familiar  playful  quotation  of  Scripture  so 
frequent  in  Shakespeare,  or  the  broadly  comic  portraiture 
of  religious  hypocrisy  unctuously  mouthing  Holy  Writ  to 
its  own  ends  that  Ben  Jonson  delights  in.  Marlowe's 
fiery  genius  sets  directly  about  its  main  ends,  and  in 
Doctor  Faustus  seizes  the  heart  and  core  of  the  Christian 
doctrine,  and  appropriates  as  much  as  is  necessary  for 
the  scheme  of  his  play.  There  is  no  hesitation,  no 
question  in  Marlowe's  mind  as  to  the  perfect  right  of 
his  art  to  enter  this  region  and  take  full  possession  of 
it.  Fragments  of  Christian  dogma  are  tossed  hither 
and  thither  in  the  burning  whirlpool  with  waifs  and 
strays  of  heathen  history  and  mythology,  while  the  living 
heat  of  the  poet's  imagination  binds  and  mats  all  the 
strange  ingredients  into  one  liquid  flame  of  terror,  and 
the  spectator  watches,  with  harrowing  suspense  and 
breathless  inescapable  impression  of  reality,  the  damna- 
tion of  a  soul.  Omitting  the  wretched  buffoonery  of 
the  comic  scenes  as  possible  interpolations  or  concessions 
to  the  groundlings,  there  is  no  room  left  for  any  thought 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  131 

of  reverence  or  irreverence.  The  question  of  the  com- 
parative truth  of  the  Greek  mythology  and  the  creed  of 
Christendom  sinks  into  a  matter  of  "words,  words, 
words,"  as  we  contemplate  the  awful  picture  of  the 
death-agony  of  Faustus.  Marlowe  compels  our  acqui- 
escence that  that  at  least  is  real,  is  true.  It  would  be 
impertinent  to  defend  the  Faustus  against  any  possible 
charge  of  irreverence  which  the  rancid,  bilious  tempera- 
ment of  superfinical  godliness  might  bring  against  it. 
No  poet  ever  reaches  such  inaccessible  heights  of 
inspiration  without  remaining  quite  impervious  and  out 
of  the  reach  of  harm  by  any  assault  from  that  quarter. 
It  could  only  be  in  an  outburst  of  bewildered  indignation 
or  riotous  satire  that  one  could  put  the  question,  whether 
in  the  matter  of  reverence  of  man's  spiritual  nature  the 
age  that  produced  Marlowe's  Faustus  has  any  need  to 
feel  ashamed  of  itself  when  brought  to  the  bar  of  the 
age  that  demanded  a  version  of  the  same  legend  brought 
down  to  the  average  intelligence  of  a  modern  burlesque 
audience. 

Upon  turning  from  Marlowe  to  Shakespeare,  we  find 
a  difference  in  the  treatment  of  sacred  subjects  and  the 
poet's  attitude  towards  religion  such  as  corresponds  with 
the  difference  in  the  genius  and  temper  of  the  two  men. 
In  neither  of  his  four  great  tragedies  is  Shakespeare  em- 
ployed upon  so  vast  and  tremendous  a  theme  as  Marlowe 
had  to  work  upon  in  Faustus.  Neither  Hamlet,  Macbeth, 
Lear,  nor  Othello  have  the  same  inherent  supernatural 
grandeur,  though  all  of  them  are  far  more  human  and 
domestic.  It  is  useless,  though  it  is  most  interesting  to 
speculate,  supposing  that  the  ground  had  not  been 
already  occupied  by  Marlowe,  what  Shakespeare  might 
have  given  us  if  he  had  treated  the  legend  of 
Faustus  in  the  meridian  of  his  powers,  in  the  Hamlet 
and  Macbeth  period. 

In  no  respect  is  the  varied  universal  play  of  Shake- 


1 32  APPENDIX 

speare's  genius,  and  his  royal  dominion  over  all  things 
human  and  divine,  more  fully  shown  than  in  the  use  he 
makes  of  the  Bible.  He  treats  the  Scriptures  as  if  they 
belonged  to  him.  Bishop  Wordsworth,  in  his  Shake- 
speare and  the  Bible,  finds  in  the  poet  more  than  550 
Biblical  quotations,  allusions,  references,  and  sentiments. 
Hamlet  alone  contains  about  eighty,  Richard  the  Third 
nearly  fifty,  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Richard  the  Second 
about  forty  each.  Shakespeare  quotes  from  fifty-four  of 
the  Biblical  books,  and  not  one  of  his  thirty-seven  plays 
is  without  a  Scriptural  reference.  Genesis  furnishes  the 
poet  with  thirty-one  quotations  or  allusions,  the  Psalms 
with  fifty-nine,  Proverbs  with  thirty-five,  Isaiah  with 
twenty-one,  Matthew  with  sixty,  Luke  with  thirty-three, 
and  Romans  with  twenty-three.  Shakespeare  does  not 
take  religious  dogma  for  the  foundation  of  any  play,  as 
Marlowe  did  in  Faustt(s,  nor  does  he  search  into  the 
private  life  of  religious  persons  as  Ben  Jonson  and 
Moliere  did.  All  the  bishops,  friars,  and  legates  who 
figure  in  his  plays  do  so  in  their  official  capacity.  How 
significant  is  the  wide  difference  of  Shakespeare's  por- 
traiture of  hypocrisy  in  the  "  prenzie  Angelo"  from  Ben 
Jonson's  and  Moliere's  portraiture  of  the  same  vice  in 
the  Banbury  Puritan  and  in  the  Tartuffel 

What  most  strikes  us  in  considering  Shakespeare's 
attitude  towards  religion  is  the  thorough  saturation  of  his 
plays  in  the  spirit  and  sentiment  and  phraseology  of  the 
moral  rather  than  the  doctrinal  portion  of  Scripture. 
Though  doctrinal  allusions  are  far  from  scanty  in  his 
works,  yet  they  are  so  little  pronounced,  so  vaguely  or 
discreetly  worded,  or  belong  so  clearly  to  the  official 
position  of  the  speaker  rather  than  to  the  conviction  of 
the  author,  or  are  so  common  to  all  the  sects,  or  if  per- 
taining to  one  of  them  are  cancelled  by  allusions  to  other 
doctrines  sanctioned  by  other  sects :  in  a  word,  so  little 
sectarian  bias  peeps  out  in  Shakespeare,  that  Catholics 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  133 

and  Anglicans    and    Independents    have    alike    claimed 
him  as  belonging  to  their  communion. 

Shakespeare  may  or  may  not  have  been  a  believer  in 
baptismal  grace.  It  is,  however,  refreshing  in  the  pre- 
sent dearth  upon  our  stage  of  original  English  comedy 
to  find  so  lively  a  compensation  for  its  absence  at  our 
theatres,  and  so  illustrious  a  proof  of  its  present  and 
perennial  vitality  in  English  life,  as  is  afforded  by  the 
spectacle  of  a  bishop  laying  the  flattering  unction  to  his 
soul  that  Shakespeare  was  a  devout  believer  in  this  same 
doctrine  of  baptismal  grace,  because  of  two  rather 
meagre  and  casual  allusions  to  it  which  Shakespeare  has 
placed  in  the  mouths  of  two  such  widely  diverse  and 
problematic  subjects  for  the  operation  of  the  sacrament 
as  Henry  the  Fifth  and  lago.  Our  sense  of  obligation  to 
the  good  bishop  is  further  deepened  by  his  skillful  com- 
plication of  the  situation  in  the  introduction  upon  the 
scene  of  Mr.  Bowdler.  Mr.  Bowdler,  it  appears,  in  his 
Family  Shakespeare,  has,  with  an  excess  of  cautious 
reverence  which  the  bishop  feels  must  cause  the  judi- 
cious reader  surprise  and  regret — Mr.  Bowdler  has  seen 
reason  to  put  half-asunder  such  an  evidently  unsuitable 
pair  of  yokefellows  as  lago  and  baptismal  grace,  which 
Shakespeare  had  joined  together.  Mr.  Bowdler  has 
omitted  the  latter  of  lago's  lines — 

To  win  the  Moor — were  't  to  renounce  his  baptism, 
All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin. 

Could  ingenuity  of  mortal  man  have  devised  a  more 
exquisitely  humorous  situation  than  is  here,  without  any 
connivance  of  our  own,  forced  upon  us?  What  aspect 
of  the  imbroglio  to  glance  at  first  or  last,  what  logical 
way  out  of  the  manifold  perplexity,  whom  to  sympathise 
with  first  or  most,  Bishop  Wordsworth  or  Mr.  Bowdler, 
or  Shakespeare  handcuffed  between  them,  one  knows 
not,  so  thickly  the  higgledy-piggledy  crowd  of  incon- 


I34  APPENDIX 

gruities  come  tumbling  upon  us!  Poor  timid  Bowdler, 
very  anxious  to  preserve  Shakespeare  for  our  families  if 
he  could  do  it  without  offence  to  decency  and  religion,  still 
more  anxious  to  preserve  our  families  pious  and  respect- 
able from  contamination  by  Shakespeare's  irreverence  and 
loose  talk,  tries  at  least  to  stop  lago's  mouth  from  blabbing 
of  matters  that  lago  has  no  business  to  know  anything 
about.  The  good  bishop  must  have  our  Shakespeare 
for  a  devout  Anglican,  and  lo  !  here  is  baptismal  grace 
in  our  Shakespeare's  soul,  apparently  tottering  upon  the 
rickety  foundation  of  two  incidental  quotations  in  the  lips 
of  two  such  dubious  connoisseurs  of  spiritual  matters  as 
Harry  of  England  and  the  Spartan  dog,  while  our  poet's 
confirmed,  desperate,  ineradicable,  irreclaimable,  irre- 
fragable paganism  stands  sure  and  "  foursquare  to  all 
the  winds  that  blow,"  based  upon  no  less  than  one 
hundred  and  twenty-nine  adjurations  and  appeals  to 
heathen  Jove  and  Jupiter,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rest  of 
the  Pantheon.  The  good  bishop  will,  however,  at  all 
costs  have  our  Shakespeare  for  a  sound  Churchman ;  in 
fact,  in  the  present  predicament,  he  will  hazard  the  matter 
and  baptize  him  will-he  nill-he,  were  it  but  for  the  sake  of 
so  illustrious  an  example  to  his  countrymen  in  a  schismatic 
nineteenth  century.  And  now  up  comes  the  wretched 
Bowdler  with  his  whitewashing  apparatus,  and,  applying 
the  proverbial  zealous  ignorance  of  indiscriminate  "  Church 
restoration"  to  Shakespeare,  is  actually  shaking  down 
one  of  the  slender  props  of  grace  in  the  poet's  soul ;  has 
actually  taken  away  from  us  the  welcome  evidence  of  the 
irreproachable  lago— we  must  hasten  and  bolster  up  the 
frail  tenement  with  our  own  episcopal  shoulders  and 
administer  a  gentle  episcopal  chastisement  to  Bowdler, 
the  well-meaning,  mischief-doing  little  man ! 

Shade  of  that  immortal  genius,  with  what  a  smile  of 
kindly  pity  dost  thou  elude  all  our  attempts  to  cabin,  crib, 
and  confine  in  the  fetters  and  tatters  of  our  particular 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  135 

sect  thy  spirit,  whose  creed  was  broad  and  general  as 
the  casing  air,  as  wide  and  universal  as  the  beneficent 
heaven  whose  arch  rests  impenetrably  bright  or  impene- 
trably dark  over  every  soul  of  man !  How  small  a 
concern  Shakespeare  had  for  creeds  and  doctrines  may 
best  be  gathered  from  the  absence  of  any  marked 
influence  upon  his  plays  of  the  religious  struggle  which 
England  had  passed  through  in  the  previous  generation. 
And  yet  he  is  steeped  in  the  language  and  spirit  of  the 
Bible.  And  it  is  just  this  attitude  of  his  towards  the 
English  Scriptures  that  fits  him  to  be  the  representative 
poet  of  England.  With  more  care  for  dogma  he  might 
have  sunk  into  the  mere  poetical  figurehead  of  a  sect  or 
a  creed ;  with  less  care  for  morality  his  work  would  have 
lacked  the  deep  and  permanent  foundation,  that  all  great 
art  instinctively  chooses,  of  resting  upon  wide-reaching 
principles  of  justice  and  truth  that  all  human  hearts  as 
instinctively  recognise  and  accept.  The  hateful,  foolish, 
convenient  maxim  so  often  dinned  into  our  ears  of  late, 
that  the  English  modern  drama  should  teach  nothing 
and  believe  in  nothing,  receives  no  countenance  from  the 
greatest  dramatists  of  the  past,  least  of  all  from  Shake- 
speare. The  greatest  art  is  as  instinctively,  as  relent- 
lessly, though  as  unobtrusively  moral  as  Nature  herself. 
One  cannot  always  perceive  it,  but  there  is  no  escaping 
it.  Dante  inflicting  the  tortures  of  damnation  upon 
myriads  of  innocent  babes  is  as  relentless  as  Nature  in 
England  to-day  condemning  myriads  of  English  babes 
to  the  deep  damnation  of  the  life-long  inheritance  and 
propagation  of  their  fathers'  and  forefathers'  vices  and 
diseases  and  crimes.  Nature  can  do  that ;  so  can  Dante  : 
and  Calvinists  may  take  heart  of  grace  from  contemplat- 
ing the  fact. 

It  will  not  be  necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  didactic 
side  and  purpose  of  Shakespeare's  constant  employment 
of  Scriptural  phrases,  precepts,  and  aspirations.  Many 


136  APPENDIX 

of  his  best  known  and  most  frequently  quoted  passages 
are  parallelisms  or  paraphrases  of  Scripture  morality,  or 
of  some  part  of  that  large  body  of  moral  axioms  and 
worldly  wisdom  and  justice  which  belongs  alike  to  the 
Bible  and  to  other  systems  of  religion  and  philosophy. 
Instances  are  so  numerous  and  well  known  that  they 
will  occur  to  every  one.  It  is  generally  and  carelessly 
assumed  that  these  didactic  passages  convey  the  nature 
and  extent  of  Shakespeare's  relations  and  obligations  to 
the  Bible.  But  this  is  far  from  being  the  fact.  His 
didactic  use  of  Scripture-history  and  morality,  though  it 
is  the  noblest  and  most  valuable,  is  by  no  means  the  only 
result,  nor  is  it  the  personal  and  distinguishing  mark,  of 
Shakespeare's  close  acquaintance  with  the  Bible.  Many 
other  poets  have  freely  employed  Scripture  for  serious 
and  didactic  ends  from  Milton  down  to  Montgomery. 
What  distinguishes  Shakespeare  is  the  perfectly  free  and 
playful  and  everyday  use  he  makes  of  Scripture  by 
putting  it  into  the  mouths  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
people  on  all  sorts  of  occasions.  Surely  those  keen 
huntsmen  of  "  lewd  and  pernicious  enormity"  in  innocent 
places,  those  playgoers  who  strain  at  the  gnat  of  a 
solitary  Scriptural  allusion  in  a  modern  play,  can  have 
no  notion  what  herds  of  camels  they  swallow  every  time 
they  witness  a  play  of  Shakespeare's  in  its  integrity. 

How  utterly  subservient  Shakespeare  deems  the  treat- 
ment of  religion  upon  the  stage  to  the  preservation  of 
dramatic  truth  and  reality  may  be  seen  in  Richard  the 
Third,  where  religion  and  morality  become  the  flimsiest 
child's  baubles  in  the  merciless  intellectual  grasp  of  the 
tyrant. 

lago,  besides  being  an  authority  on  the  efficacy  of 
baptismal  grace,  is  "full  of  most  blessed  condition"  in 
his  reference  to  Holy  Writ,  and  his  constant  display  of 
wise  and  moral  maxims.  Poor  Bowdler  cannot  under- 
stand it,  and  smells  irreverence. 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  137 

Richard  the  Second  so  far  allows  his  sense  of  human 
injury  to  get  the  better  of  his  sense  of  religious  propriety 
that  he  institutes  a  comparison  in  the  matter  of  treachery 
between  himself  and  Christ,  and  earlier  in  the  play  he 
cries  out  upon  Bagot,  Bushy,  and  Green  as  "  three 
Judases,  each  one  thrice  worse  than  Judas ! "  Poor 
Bowdler  can  do  nothing  but  hold  up  his  hands  in  horror 
and  excise  the  passage,  and  Bishop  Wordsworth  smilingly 
pats  his  approval.  No  possible  testimony  to  the  efficacy 
of  baptismal  grace  to  be  squeezed  out  of  such  a  line  ! 
Away  with  it ! 

Shylock  has  several  allusions  to  Old  Testament 
personages  and  facts,  whose  use  is  not  very  apparent  to 
the  dim,  bewildered,  tender-conscienced,  narrow-visioned 
Bowdler.  While  what  can  family  respectability  and  piety 
make  of  such  a  speech  as  "  Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat 
of  the  habitation  which  your  prophet  the  Nazarite  con- 
jured the  devil  into"?  a  speech  in  which  the  heights  of 
dramatic  propriety  and  religious  impropriety  are  simul- 
taneously reached  at  one  bound.  Bowdlerism  can  only 
sorrowfully  shake  its  poor  bewildered  head  at  the 
dramatist's  readiness  to  sacrifice  every  rag  of  deference 
to  its  pet  prejudices,  and,  at  all  costs,  to  give  the  full 
and  exact  truth  of  Shylock's  manner  of  speech. 

There  are  a  large  number  of  Scriptural  allusions  in 
Shakespeare  which  apparently  have  neither  any  moral 
to  enforce,  nor  any  special  dramatic  fitness  to  the  speaker 
or  the  occasion.  Of  such  is  Antony's — 

Oh,  that  I  were 

Upon  the  hill  of  Basan  to  outroar 
The  horned  herd ! 

which  shows  Shakespeare's  rather  than  Antony's  diligent 
study  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  which  indiscriminate 
and  unnecessary  employment  of  Scripture  language  again 
shocks  and  grieves  our  poor  sensitive  Bowdler,  and  fills 


138  APPENDIX 

the  soul  of  that  great  mountain  of  British  Bowdlerism, 
Samuel  Johnson,  with  "pity  and  indignation."  Leaving 
Bowdlerism  to  digest  or  reject  as  it  may  this  frequent 
indiscriminate  and  casual  employment  of  Scripture  by 
somewhat  unqualified  persons,  we  pass  on  to  notice  what 
is  more  shocking  and  irreverent  still,  the  extensive 
acquaintance  with  sacred  terms  and  topics  shown  by 
Shakespeare's  clowns  and  comic  personages. 

Hamlet  and  Richard  the  Third  may  justly  have  some 
concern  with  the  affairs  of  conscience,  but  what  moral 
necessity,  except  perhaps  the  sufficiently  obvious  and 
imperative  one  of  shocking  all  the  tribe  of  Bowdlers,  can 
there  be  to  give  Lancelot  Gobbo  a  long  soliloquy  about 
conscience  and  the  devil  ?  What  is  there  to  be  said  for 
Cassio's  broaching  the  awful  tenets  of  Calvinism  in  a 
state  of  drivelling  drunkenness?  How  are  we  to  view 
the  utter  disregard  of  all  poor  Bowdler's  sense  of  moral 
fitness,  the  reckless,  callous,  ingrained  want  of  all  con- 
sideration and  fellow-feeling  for  jaundiced,  green-sick, 
sour-milk,  retchy,  phthisicky,  maudlin,  sniffing,  nibbling, 
dyspeptic,  venomous,  blear-eyed,  addle-headed,  spasm- 
bitten,  puffy,  flatulent,  east-wind-swollen,  nineteenth- 
century  religiosity,  which  Shakespeare  discovers  in  his 
unscrupulous  relish  for  putting,  on  comic  occasions, 
Scriptural  allusions  and  terms  and  scraps  into  the  mouths 
of  such  personages  as  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Feste,  Moth, 
Armado,  Jaques,  Celia,  Touchstone,  Mrs.  Quickly, 
Justice  Shallow,  Prince  Henry,  Pinch  the  schoolmaster, 
Dromio  of  Syracuse,  Mrs.  Page,  the  gravedigger,  the 
clown  in  All's  Well,  and  the  porter  in  Macbeth'!  "  Most 
unkindest  kind  cut  of  all,"  and  double  superlative  topsy- 
turvy perversion  of  all  reverence,  morality,  and  religion 
as  Bowdler  understands  them,  the  arch-quoter  and  arch- 
purloiner  of  odds  and  ends  from  Holy  Writ  in  all  Shake- 
speare is  none  other  than,  whom  could  one  guess? — 
Sir  John  Falstaff.  Sir  John — Heaven  forbid  one  should 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  139 

fail  of  all  due  honour  and  respect  to  him  when  he  comes 
so  pat  to  support  one's  theory  ! — Sir  John  never  loses  an 
opportunity  of  patching  up  his  old  body  for  heaven  by 
seasoning  his  conversation  with  godly  saws  and  ancient 
instances.  He  is  a  perfect  mine  of  Scriptural  illustration, 
and  seems  to  have  had  every  qualification  for  editing  a 
Reference  Bible.  "I  am  as  poor  as  Job,  my  lord,  but 
not  as  patient."  "  In  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell, 
and  what  should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of 
villainy?"  "  Oh,  if  men  were  to  be  saved  by  merit,  what 
hole  in  hell  were  hot  enough  for  him?"  "A  whoreson 
Achitophel."  "  I  never  see  thy  face  but  I  think  on  hell- 
fire  and  Dives  that  lived  in  purple,  for  there  he  is  in  his 
robes,  burning,  burning,  burning."  "  Slaves  as  ragged  as 
Lazarus  in  the  painted  cloth  where  the  glutton's  dogs 
licked  his  sores."  "  In  the  shape  of  man,  Master  Brooke, 
I  fear  not  Goliath  with  a  weaver's  beam,  because  I  know 
also  life  is  a  shuttle," — two  quotations  and  a  dubious  pun 
in  one  sentence.  "If  to  be  fat  is  to  be  hated,  then 
Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to  be  loved."  "  If  then  the  tree 
may  be  known  by  the  fruit."  "  And  for  thy  walls  a  pretty 
slight  drollery,  or  the  story  of  the  prodigal."  "  His  face 
is  Lucifer's  kitchen,  where  he  doth  nothing  but  roast 
malt-worms."  "I  think  the  devil  will  not  have  me 
damned  lest  the  oil  that  is  in  me  should  set  hell 
on  fire." 

No  abuse,  good  Mr.  Bowdler,  no  abuse  in  the  world ! 
he  does  but  dispraise  reverence  before  the  wicked,  that 
the  wicked  may  not  fall  in  love  with  it.  "  God  be  thanked 
for  these  Scriptural  quotations ;  they  offend  none  but 
the  virtuous." 

Bowdlerism  stands  aghast,  shuddering,  woefully  "  tickled 
in  its  catastrophe " ;  cannot  for  its  life  understand  how 
this  reckless  want  of  reverence  for  all  its  consecrated 
baggage  and  pedlar's  pack  of  shibboleths  and  symbols 
and  phrases,  is  yet  twinned  with  the  deepest  heart 


1 40  APPENDIX 

reverence  for  virtue,  and  truth,  and  justice,  and  faith, 
and  honesty,  and  beauty,  and  righteousness. 

But,  O  Bowdlerism,  consider  it,  what  if  Shakespeare's 
main  idea  about  religion  was  even  briefly  this,  the  very 
same  as  another  Teacher's  idea  about  the  Sabbath  which 
also  poor  British  Bowdlerism  can  never  bring  itself  to 
accept — namely,  that  religion  was  made  for  man,  and 
not  man  for  religion. 

On  leaving  Shakespeare  and  turning  to  Ben  Jonson 
we  are  again  met  with  a  characteristic  change  in  the 
poet's  attitude  towards  Scriptural  things.  "  Broad-based, 
broad-fronted,  bounteous,  multiform"  Ben  is  more  akin 
to  Moliere  than  to  Shakespeare  in  his  treatment  of 
religious  affairs  and  persons.  Though  Ben  has  no 
religious  figure  of  such  importance  and  tragic  significance 
as  Tartuffe,  he  has  drawn  the  hypocrites  of  his  time 
with  a  fierce  and  unsparing  hand.  There  is  a  riotous 
glee  and  overflowing  merriment  of  satire  in  his  delinea- 
tions of  Puritan  hypocrisy  in  Bartholomew  Fair  and  the 
Alchemist.  The  full-length  portrait  of  Zeal-of-the-land 
Busy  is  without  parallel  and  beyond  all  chance  of  com- 
petition in  its  immitigable  force  of  broad  truthful  humour 
and  merciless  exposure  of  that  constant  type  in  English 
life,  the  religious  professor  who  has  but  one  object  in  life, 
the  promotion  of  the  self-same  and  identical  interests  of 
the  glory  of  God  and  his  own  stomach.  The  scene  in 
the  fair,  in  which,  after  having  gorged  himself  with 
Bartholomew-pig  as  a  protest  against  Judaism,  he  upsets 
Joan  Trash's  basket  of  gingerbread  images  as  a  protest 
against  Popery,  is  one  of  the  finest  and  richest  pieces  of 
comedy  in  our  literature.  A  noticeable  feature  of  Ben 
Jonson's  religious  professors  is  their  inveterate  habit  of 
quoting  Bible  phrases.  His  deacons  quote  Scripture  by 
the  yard.  Tribulation  Wholesome,  Ananias,  the  Ban- 
bury  man,  and  Dame  Purecraft  are  incurably  afflicted 
with  this  loquacity  of  Scriptural  quotation.  One  meets 


RELIGION   AND  THE   STAGE  141 

with  as  many  as  sixteen  Scriptural  allusions  and  phrases 
in  about  as  many  speeches.  Ben  Jonson  seems  to  have 
been  troubled  with  no  qualms  about  the  propriety  of 
making  his  religious  persons  speak  their  natural  everyday 
language.  To  what  a  small  extent  this  perfectly  free 
treatment  of  Scriptural  matters  in  Marlowe,  Shakespeare, 
and  Jonson  is  part  of  the  general  coarseness  and  freedom 
of  speech  in  that  time,  is  seen  by  the  impossibility  of 
tearing  out  and  wrenching  away  these  several  portions 
of  their  works  without  great  damage  and  injury  to  the 
remainder,  and  leaving  the  writer's  mind  and  spirit 
misrepresented  and  mutilated ;  while  almost  every  coarse 
and  indecent  expression  in  these  writers  may  be  readily 
stripped  and  detached  from  the  setting  in  which  it  is 
found. 

The  mere  mention  of  Tartuffe,  and  its  acknowledged 
position  as  one  of  the  glories  and  masterpieces  of 
universal  dramatic  literature  is  a  sufficient  reply,  one 
would  think,  to  all  who  urge  that  it  is  not  lawful  to  treat 
religion  upon  the  stage.  The  play  and  Moliere's  preface 
to  it  remain  as  a  triumphant  assertion  for  all  time  of  the 
sovereignty  of  the  drama  in  its  own  domain.  And  that 
domain  is  the  whole  of  the  nature,  and  heart,  and 
passions,  and  conduct  of  men. 

There  is  an  old  proverb  which  will  of  course  be  flung 
at  any  modern  playwright  who  mentions  such  names  as 
Shakespeare,  Marlowe,  Moliere,  and  Ben  Jonson.  He 
will  be  reminded  that  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to 
tread.  But  by  your  leave,  good  folks,  the  boot  is  fast 
stuck  on  the  other  leg  this  time.  There  is  no  maxim 
that  forbids  even  fools  to  tread  where  angels  have  rushed 
in,  and  it  is  for  you  to  prove  how  and  why  a  modern 
playwright  does  wrong  in  treading  after  those  whose 
shoe-latchets  he  is  unworthy  to  loose.  The  quotation 
upon  the  stage  by  any  character  of  any  portion  of  the 
noblest  examolp  of  our  noble  literature  could  never  have 


142 


APPENDIX 


sounded  strange  in  modern  ears  until  the  debts  of  our 
language  to  those  writings  had  been  forgotten  and  an- 
nulled by  those  who  would  rather  see  our  stately  and 
beautiful  mother-tongue  turned  into  the  roaring,  gossip- 
ing, evil-speaking  trollops  of  every  vile  resort,  than 
employed  as  the  mouthpiece  and  bearer  of  any  intelligible 
message  to  mankind. 

The  success  or  failure  of  any  individual  play  is  of  the 
merest  momentary  consequence,  and  need  not  here  be 
brought  into  our  thoughts.  But  the  matter  of  a  free 
atmosphere  for  dramatists  to  work  in,  the  matter  of  some 
sort  of  an  appeal  or  tribunal  beyond  the  heated,  change- 
ful prejudices  and  caprices  of  the  populace,  is  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  the  future  of  the  drama. 

The  question  of  the  right  of  dramatists  to  faithfully 
depict  modern  religious  life  is  only  part  of  the  much 
wider  and  more  general  question  of  their  right  and  duty 
and  ability  to  deal  faithfully  with  whatsoever  aspect  they 
try  to  depict  of  the  huge  unwieldy  mass  of  modern 
human  life.  That  larger  right  and  duty  indubitably 
contains  the  smaller  ;  nay,  cannot  in  any  way  be 
detached  from  it.  And  in  face  of  our  utterly  insigni- 
ficant labours  and  attainments  in  that  larger  field  a 
modern  playwright  had  best  keep  silence. 

O  human  life !  so  varied,  so  vast,  so  complex,  so 
rich  and  subtle  in  tremulous  deep  organ  tones,  and  soft 
proclaim  of  silver  flutes,  so  utterly  beyond  our  spell  and 
insight,  who  of  us  can  govern  the  thunder  and  whirlwind 
of  thy  ventages  to  any  utterance  of  harmony,  or  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  thy  eternal  mystery? 


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